My Fair Agent
by DianaLecter
Summary: Well-known and respected psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, accepts the most complex of challenges… (Outside of either novel cannon) This story is finished. (Hurrah!) The epilogue has been added.
1. Night on the Town

My Fair Agent

Author: DianaLecter (mischalecter@hotmail.com)

Rating: NR (right now, anyway)

Timeline: Outside of canon

Summary: Well-known and respected psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, accepts the most complex of challenges…

A/N:  I have found that I struggle immensely with the opening chapters of any story, so please excuse any errors.  The following chapters will be much more proficient.  This is a working parody of 'My Fair Lady' at the suggestion of a very dear friend of mine.  If you haven't seen the film and are worried about potential spoilers, don't worry.  I'm playing with the cannon quite a bit. Thanks to all my friends for your wonderful support.  I had almost decided to discontinue posting here.  

Disclaimer:  The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris.  They are being used out of respect, as a tribute, and are making no profit.  No copyright infringement of any kind is intended.

~~~

Chapter One 

            The most interesting specimen always emerged at night.    

This could be said for many towns, each with their own unique societal views, levels, similar to others but never identical.  The daytime crowd was very structured, straightforward, some waiting for the sun to dip out of the sky so they could turn their attentions to more extravagant affairs.  Studying these people was always a comical pastime, as they spent most of the conventional life denying to others the wild side of nightly personalities.

There were, of course, those fundamentalists who looked down their noses at those who only pretended to be on good behavior during the sunlit hours.  In studying the crowds downtown, Dr. Hannibal Lecter concluded that the type to socialize at pubs either had no use of God or were so fanatically religious that they didn't know what to do with themselves.

Likewise, there were the cross dressers, prostitutes, all those commonly associated with darkened street corners and smoke-filled bars.  These did not interest Dr. Lecter, as they could be found anywhere.  No, he much preferred studying those with real emotional issues.  The insomniacs, the manic-depressives, the obsessive compulsive…those who, if they did not follow the exact same routine every night might kill themselves.  While pathetic, he found some entertainment in studying patterned human behavior.  It worked well for his practice.

True, Dr. Lecter was not a fan of mingling in loud pubs, as such assaulted all five senses.  He did not stay long; ultimately chased off by the sound they called music, the smoke as thick as molasses that assaulted his lungs, the same sob stories over and over.  There was always some poor boozehound conversing with a disinterested bartender and determined not to see the bottom of his glass, always a woman recently abandoned with ten children to feed, always a dark and mysterious figure in the corner that ordered the exact same thing every evening, demanding nothing but the check and the same waitress to serve him.

Yes, the cases were similar, but not identical.  While they were not altogether riveting, it did keep him occupied.  

The truth was, while his practice was a success, Dr. Lecter was accepting that his profession no longer excited him.  His patients were becoming tedious, their problems never progressing, most sob stories that didn't want to get better.  In fairness to a few, he had said goodbye to some he found reasonably cure.  It would be fate's intervention that the quickest to leave also had the most interesting cases.  

All in all, it was a habit he was considering dropping.  Tonight offered no more prospect than the thousands preceding it.   Dr. Lecter made habit of sitting near the door, always ready to make an easy escape.  He had a talent of tuning out the most annoying aspects around him, watching for that one special case that would put his boredom to rest.  Though he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, he was confident that he would know when he saw it.  A project, something with which to occupy his numbed mind.  It seemed impossible that with as many people as there were out there, so many mentally instable rambling morons, that the selection would be this slim.  

It was.  That, and then some.

Tonight, he had decided to retire early.  Dr. Lecter never tested the beverage selection on these outings.  Merely breathing its scent was displeasing.  He was not a fan of hard liquor, and was glad to return home to a variety of fine wines for a nightcap.  

There was no shame in going home early.  Frequenting at these tasteless locations, aside from wasting time, reassured him that his own chosen seclusion was a much preferable way to spend his life.  Dr. Lecter occasionally escorted a lady of high class to dinner or the opera, but as the crowd at these bars, the women in his life tended to be bland and dull, focused only on the material world.  While he would never deny his enjoyment in what riches bought, he considered himself a philosopher of sorts, and deeply craved intelligent conversation that went beyond obvious observations and admiring jewelry in a passing window.  

Aside from the usual, which was becoming more and more dreary, Dr. Lecter reflected that he did have something to look forward to.  A friend was moving to town on a job offer that he had managed to arrange.  The pay was good and beneficial to his friend, and it was also a momentary solution to his boredom.  

Dr. Lecter did not like habit.  In fact, he detested it.

As he gathered his numerous studies and placed them in his briefcase, most notepads blank except for a portrait he had started almost subconsciously of a young woman who looked truly miserable on the other side of the bar.  Since arriving that night, he had found himself watching her, drawing almost subconsciously.  She was drinking, though not much, looking to have the sense enough about her to save thorough drunkenness for the privacy of her home, where no one had to clean up after her.  Rather than carry the image of a sloppy individual who didn't care how others might judge her based on outward manifestation, she appeared well-groomed, perhaps a little worn, and very tired.  Dr. Lecter had not seen her before, nor did he reckon he would see her again.  Newcomers tended to stay only if the company was good.  This woman was with a young, vivacious African-American, and looked to be trying to have a good time.  Trying unsuccessfully.

The portrait on his sketchpad was flattering.  Dr. Lecter found himself curious, but fed up enough with inconclusive studies.  Perhaps if she was back the next night, when he could make more observations.  

Just as he was trotting for the door, a crude comment directed visibly to the young woman caught his ear, and he lent himself pause.  Discourtesy, especially when unprovoked, annoyed him to the extreme.  Though standing there, it wasn't in irritation that kept him from walking out the door.  It was general curiosity and wonder, waiting to conclude if his surface-assumptions on the girl were accurate.  If she responded in kind, then he was out of luck and would have to wait for the next prospective specimen, or quit altogether.  Those desperate for love will look anywhere and respond to anything.  Pathetic.  Dr. Lecter need not waste efforts on the needy.  Still, his irritated senses beckoned him to turn and address the pawning whelp, and he well might have had the abrupt, harsh reverberation of flesh against flesh not interrupted the noise of the bar.  There was a sudden foray of cursing and the sound of wood snapping.  He turned to observe the man, positioned in the middle of a busted table on his spine, rubbing his jaw in bewilderment.  The woman was shaking her head in disgust, absently caressing her right hand, and turning back to address the shocked expression on her friend's face.

Dr. Lecter smiled to himself.  "Well, she is a fiery little vixen, isn't she?" He mused, barely aware that he spoke.  Hmmm…potential?  Dare he hope?  He decided to wait around a bit.  There was a comfortable nook by the door where he could disappear and observe.  Should the possible venture disappoint him, there was still an easy way out.

All the while, he offhandedly occupied himself by noting with a wince the lack of constructive grammar or sentence structure that surrounded him.  Though he had noticed this before on several occasions, it somehow never ceased to amaze him how many Americans could not comprehend the language.  

Indeed, the young woman did have potential.  After a bit, Dr. Lecter reclined, comfortable, and started to listen.  Every word, syllable, phrase would be recorded in his memory palace.  Though he was not a fan of eavesdropping, he logically assumed it might be even more offensive to approach her without coming to a conclusion and inform her that she was in the running for a good psychological teardown.  Sometimes, there simply was no other way.  

The first voice he heard was her friend's, surprised and ringing of odd admiration.  

"Shit, girl…break every bone in your hand, why dunncha?"  

"Damn bunch of self-satisfied pricks," the woman replied, voice coated in thick accent.  "As if I don't have enough to worry about.  I'm so tired of this!"

"Girl, you know that you've done all you can."

"…You don't understand, 'Delia. You can't…you weren't there.  I don't know why he had me on this fucking thing anyway."  There was an exasperated grunt, and his mind depicted the image of her combing her fingers through her hair, elbow propped on the table.  He wondered, briefly, if this was accurate, and was tempted to turn and investigate, but held himself immobile.  "No one saw it," she continued a minute later, tone softer, almost dead.  "He expected me to…goddammit…I don't know what he wanted.  I've never felt so…so fucking helpless."

Dr. Lecter winced.  Profanity.  He wasn't a fan, though had used it on occasion.  Suggested primitive upbringing, but it was cultured.  More the product of anger and self-resentment.  He made a side note about that.  Fiery little vixen, indeed.  

More than that, she was distressed, seriously distressed.  Hmmmmm...

"He trusts you," her friend replied earnestly.  "And he should.  You're one of the best students."

"Best students?  I couldn't save her.  And if that isn't enough, they're sayin' shit.  Are you gonna just sit there and ignore the rumors?  What they're sayin'…"

"'Bout Bella?"  There was a short pause.  "Come on, Starling, you don't actually listen to that bullshit, do you?  It's crap…absolute crap.  He wouldn't waste his time.  Not like this.  Not when there's too much to lose."

"But they're sayin' it, 'Delia.   Don't you get it?  Even if this thing does work out…even if by some strange will of God everything turns out all right…they'll always be sayin' it."  Her voice dropped more, but Dr. Lecter did not need to strain to hear, his senses being superb without need of coaxing or additional influence.  "They'll always be sayin' why."  

A few minutes of tossed dialogue, and he was enthralled, mind working faster filing and listening, waiting for an unwilled signal.  It wasn't until an alien voice interrupted that he forced himself to pause.

"Ladies…" a male voice, and he wondered, briefly, if more unsuspecting furniture was about to meet its fate.  "Check for the drinks, and the busted table.  Thought you might like to know…there's a dude there in that nook behind you, listening to every blessed word you're saying."  

Dr. Lecter did not know which was more humiliating: being captured, or being called a 'dude.'

He did not have much time to consider.  Soon, he found himself face to face with the woman, and there was fire in her eyes.

"Who the flying fuck do you think you are, spying on me?" she spat.  Her jaw set and her pupils widened in rage.  "Oh no.  I shoulda known Krendler'd send someone after me.  He'd just _love_ to catch…" The thought was left incomplete, her mind switching to more immediate tactics.  "How much is he paying you?  One hundred?  Two?  Tell him he shouldn't worry about my destruction.  I'm—"

Torn halfway between shocked and amused, Dr. Lecter merely arched his eyebrows and chuckled, cutting her words off.  He considered in denying her allegations, just to ruse her, but he was not one to exercise blatant dishonesty.  The notion was dead in the next instant. "Not meaning to offend, I assure you.  Merely conducting some random observations."

"A likely story.  He much is he paying you?"

"Who?  This Krendler you mentioned?  Nothing at all.  I do not know him."

"Why should I believe that?"

"You're not obligated to believe anything, but it is the truth, nonetheless."  

"And you expect me to believe that you're just listening to my conversation for an experiment?  Ever heard of invasion of privacy?  Ever heard of decency?  Ever heard—"

"I admit I had a less-than-orthodox approach, and for that, you have my apologies."  The woman she identified crudely as 'Delia came into view, but he did not look to her.  

"Your apologies?" she scoffed.  "What the goddamned good does that do me?  I don't know who you are!"

Ohhh, this _was_ fun! 

"I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and I was indulging in a little field study.  An observation on patterned behavior."  A look of perplexity overcame her features, and some of the fire quenched from her eyes.  "Again, I intended no offense.  As for listening to your conversation, I am merely taking bits here and there.  If I intended to publish your confessions, don't you imagine I would have relied on paper to be sure my facts were accurate?"

Of course, this whippersnapper didn't know that such notes were unneeded.  

"Then why listen at all?" she asked a minute later.  "What good could it do you?"

"Simple observations.  Life is too slippery to trust with ink and paper."  Dr. Lecter chuckled once more, turning his eyes to the bartender, who was completely spellbound with the conversation.  "How are all your people down at Selsey?" He asked with arched brows, as though he had known this man all his life.

The bartender blinked his surprise.  "Who told you my people come from Selsey?"

"Never mind. They do. How do you come to be up so far east? Your dialect betrays you as Lisson Grove."  Subtly, Dr. Lecter glanced back to the girl in front of him…Starling, as her friend had identified her.  "You see?  Simple research and a trained ear will do you wonders."
    
    Starling's friend stepped forward, eying him untrustingly.  "Where do I come from?"    

He considered.  "Richmond, I believe, though not originally."
    
    "Well, who said I didn't?" she retorted, as though unimpressed, which was betrayed by her eyes.   

The bartender, recovered from his former surprise, leered forward and asked, "Do you do this sort of thing for a living at a music hall?  Predict where people come from?"

"No.  As I said, simple research and observation.  Anyone could do it."
    
    Starling scowled, not convinced, and stepped back, shaking her head.  "He's no gentleman. Listening in on random people's conversations…acting so casual about it…"  Her eyes were an inferno once more, and he found his amusement rising again.  "You asshole," she accused.
    
                Completely rapt in this stunning ability, the bartender leaned forward with interest, all former doubts pushed aside.  "So that's what you do here!  I've seen you before…come in, stay a bit, and leave.  Never ordering nothing.  How do you do it, guess people's hometowns like that?"
    
    "Simple phonetics.  The science of speech. It's a hobby, really.  Anyone can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue, but I can place a man within six miles."  Dr. Lecter smiled pleasantly.  "A matter of listening and understanding dialect.  This young woman," he nodded to Starling, "is distinctively from West Virginia.  Yes…but that was not what interested me.  You are distressed, are you not?  Something to do with your career?"
    
    "You get all that just from listening to me?"
    
    "Yes.  Dissatisfied, worried about what others think of you.  It's a natural complexion.  Coping in a man's world." He studied her hands for a minute, then drew in a deep breath.  "You handle firearms, I see.  What is it you do, Ms. Starling?  Police work?"
    
    She looked down, as though stung.  "Student…I'm a student at Quantico."
    
    "Ah…the FBI."
    
    The particular annunciation of her profession brought her back to reality.  He was sure to make it short and pointed.  "Well, from your aggressive behavior, I do believe I can summarize why you might have difficulty.  Perhaps repressed anger toward this…Krendler you mentioned?"  Dr. Lecter stood and saw her tremble a bit in reflex.  "Perhaps you don't manage your rage?"
    
    "If you're suggesting that I act the way at work the way I act at bars, you got another thing coming," she said strongly, despite the dawning realization.  "You don't know the half of it."    

"Let me tell you something now, with what I've seen."  He knew his voice was affecting her, soft and metallic, though assertive.  "Carry on as you are, and you will continue to be dissatisfied, shunned, overlooked.  You indeed do not portray yourself here as you would at school.  That much is abundantly clear.  You're not fitting the role they expect, which is well played on your part.  However, that is not to say you are avowing yourself correctly.  I would suggest—"

"Hey, lay off her, man!" her friend quipped defensively.  "She's had a rough week."

"In six months," Dr. Lecter continued, glancing to the bartender, who was hanging onto his every word, "I could have this young lady coached in ways they do not fathom at the FBI.  In six months, I could pass her off as a duchess at an Embassy ball."

Starling snickered her disbelief.  "Whatever."

"You doubt it?"

"Who says I want to be a duchess?"

"I said I could pass you off, I never said that you would be one."  Dr. Lecter grinned.  

The conversation could have continued forever, and he found he was enjoying himself.  Starling betrayed no emotion through her face, and in spite the logicality of rationale, he was curious.  Curious about her conversation with her friend, before the interruption, about what was upsetting her so.  Had this sustained, he might have asked, but in the next instant a familiar face pushed through the front doors.  Dr. Lecter smiled at the sight.  His friend from out of town was a large black man; large enough for some of the other customers to pause and gaze at him in scrutiny.  His eyes were unnaturally far apart, but they held great wisdom.

"Barney!" Dr. Lecter exclaimed, smiling as the man turned to wave at him.  "How ever did you find me here?"

"Called your office…they said you might be doing some research here."  He turned to examine the crowd.  "I can see why.  Interesting place."  

"Interesting, yes.  However, I believe I have outworn my welcome.  It seems my studies were upsetting these young ladies."  Dr. Lecter turned back to Starling.  "What is your name?  Your first?"

"Clarice."

"May I call you Clarice, or do you prefer Ms. Starling?"

She shrugged.  "What's the point of asking?  You won't be seeing me again…you could call me Belinda if you wanted.  It's all the same to me.  What was your name again?  Hannibal?  I—"

"Dr. Lecter, please.  It seems most appropriate for your age and station."  He smiled a bit as she flustered.  "No harm done.  Goodbye, Clarice."  Courteous to the last, he smiled before gathering his briefcase and moving passed her to pat Barney lightly on the back.  "So glad you made it.  Come now, I tire of this crowd."

"What about this job?"

"Ah yes, the job.  Wonderful position; you'll enjoy it."  

They walked out of the pub with no epilogue or reference to the conversation he abandoned, though Dr. Lecter did steal a gaze through the outer windows, studying Starling for a brief second before continuing.  Her face was animate and she was visibly irritated, ignoring her friend's attempts to calm her.  Finally, she threw up both hands in defense and retreated toward the back of the bar, out of sight.

Fiery little vixen.  If only every night could be this productive.  


	2. Morning Jog And Other Pleasantries

For Clarice Starling, the next day came all too quickly.

Given everything she had to take into consideration, rolling out of bed at the usual 5:00 am seemed a rather insignificant quandary, though these days sleep was a luxury.  A precious thing of limited resource, something she found she needed with aching precision.  Perhaps it was a reflection of her childhood days in the orphanage, or perhaps age and stress were finally catching up with her.

Gallivanting in bars, certainly, did not help her dilemma.  Especially when she found herself in the company of mysterious strangers who were too altogether nosy for their own good.  True, she hadn't encountered many that fit that description, but last night's episode had fueled her for a lifetime.

The audacity of that man!

Starling had enough on her mind without having to worry herself with her appearance in public.  Over the years, she had mastered the many devices and techniques in which to conceal misery, allowing it to fester and brew until you rightfully couldn't stand it anymore.  A counselor at school once told her that repressing emotions wasn't a way of healing them, causing her to never visit the office again.

Of course, schoolgirl outbursts were behind her.  She had behaved herself, come reasonably far in life, given her upbringing.  And yet…yet…

_Teaches me to frequent in bars, _she mused to herself, finally rolling out of bed, refusing to accept the challenge from the alarm clock and simply hit snooze.  _Also teaches me to stay out until two if I have to get up in three hours.  _

It wasn't this difficult when she was younger.  Starling found herself facing the incontestable evidence that she was no longer sixteen years old.  When she eyed her image in the mirror, she poked a face at it, as though trying to push the thought away and buy herself some precious time.  "Mornin' Sunshine," she quipped to herself.  Her voice stank of West Virginia hills.

Some realizations took awhile.  

The vow remained never to stay up as late again without double-checking the caffeine supply, despite her inner revelations.  Almost reluctantly, she forced herself into routine.  Her sweats remained where she threw them the day before, as did her pullover and sneakers.  She wiggled into jogging clothes, changing the settings on the Mr. Coffee she shared with Mapp so that a warm cup of French Vanilla would welcome her when she returned.

There wasn't much that she remembered after the sudden departure of that doctor the night before…oh, what's his name.  Starling shook her head, her eyes falling over Mapp, passed out on the sofa, still fully clothed.  It would be a while before her friend answered the call of morning, even longer before she decided to get to school.  Lucky for her there were no exams that day.  More excuses to make.  Funny that no one seemed to tire of her friend's logic, the long stream of poorly constructed justification for her incessant tardiness.  Yet, if _she _were late…

The air was chilled, not too much, but enough to make her shiver as she stepped outside.  Empty, barren streets awaited her, the night not having lifted the veil of courtly silence it endorsed habitually.  Though no one could ever describe Washington as a peaceful city, there were some aspects that she could appreciate.  Starling's neighborhood was relatively quiet.  It had to be; mostly colleagues within the Bureau made up its residents. 

Customarily, she made a resolution to get to know her neighbors as she stretched, but Starling's thoughts were detached this morning.  Distant.  Elusive.  

Patterned behavior… 

And she set off, desperate to leave last night's memoirs behind.  

_"You look like you're troubled about something."_

Starling shook her head, attempting unsuccessfully to concentrate on the sound of her feet against the pavement.  _Gollop, lop, lop…_

_"Perhaps you don't manage your rage?"_

The urge to reply to that aloud was strong, but she withheld, biting her tongue.  Instead, her mind formed the response, and she smiled tightly.  Sadly.  _The last thing I need is a fucking professional telling me I'm nuts._

_Patterned behavior._

_Gollop, lop, lop, lop…_

Christ!  Though she was not and never would be a 'people person,' Starling felt she had developed a knack for it.  She had endured years of people telling her she wasn't good enough for the job, that she should quit while she's ahead, that she if was doing something right, it was probably on her back.

That was before the other accusations came.  After people realized to some extent how very far off the mark they were.

Cold fish!  Cold fish!  Cold fish! 

Wasn't running supposed to be relaxing?

Again, her mind rebelled.  _Hell, honey, when is _anything _relaxing anymore?_

_"Perhaps you don't manage your rage?"_

_Why should I, _she thought defiantly.  _Leave myself open for more_ assholes _like you?_

"Well, from your aggressive behavior, I do believe I can summarize why you might have difficulty."  

_Gee, you're a really observant psychiatrist._

After all, weren't most people in bars troubled?  If they weren't, wouldn't they be elsewhere?

Sweat glistened her forehead and dripped into her eyes.  A voice screamed within her, reasoning why this was troubling her so.  Anger had nothing to do with it.  She was frustrated, yes, but more on the idea that she had allowed herself to become so easily read, literally by a stranger.  Starling knew how annoying people were who forced their troubles on others, as though expecting some compensation for all of life's prejudices.  An explanation, a reassurance that they aren't alone in their misery, _something.  _Though she was confident that her state of mind had not lowered itself to the term 'basket-case,' the ordeal was disconcerting.  In a sense, it was almost worse.

_Hello, my name is Doctor Something-or-Other, and I'm studying you for an evaluation on **patterned behavior.  **_

Patterned behavior.

_Nuh-uh.  I don't think so buddy._

The falsified words of the doctor ensued, and while she knew he hadn't spoken them, something rotated nastily in her stomach at the thought.  

_You're really pathetic.  Care for some help?  Some…EV-AL-U-A-TION?_

Pity from a stranger.  Not even compassionate pity – it was observatory sympathy.  'I feel sorry for you because I'm better than you are, and that's fucking hilarious.'

_What was his name?  What was his name?_

Doctor—

_Something to do with elephants.  I remember that much._

Hannibal.

At that, Starling nearly paused in stride in an incursion of giggles.  Aligning this man in the same category as elephants, no matter how much or little she knew of him, was amusing.  

_Gollop, lop, lop…_

Lecter.

_"Dr. Lecter, please.  It seems most appropriate for your age and station."_

_I'm sorry.  You need to be beyond the mentality of some sob-story teenager to partake in this conversation.  Come back when you get your attitude straightened up.  Have a nice day._

Starling's hair brushed into her eyes, and she hastily drew it away.  She could see her porch.  Never had the prospect of ending a jog seemed so liberating.  As she approached, she slowed, deciding against her usual cool-down walk.  No more tinkering with thoughts this morning.  Not when she had to go into work.  That required strength.

_Why is this bothering me so much?_

Starling didn't break stride as she settled into a paced walk to the front door.  Perhaps jogging in the morning wasn't such a good idea, especially on as little sleep as she had acquired.  Three hours was hardly sufficient.  

Coffee waited inside.  Caffeine.  The source of life.  She could smell it from here.

_It's bothering me because what he said was true.  Because he hit a fucking nerve._

Starling slammed the front door shut, refusing to give the matter another thought.

*          *          *

The taste of new irritation washed out with the influence of the old.  This day was like no other.  Same rudimentary snickers from male students, the both appreciative and leering stares radiating at all angles.  Whispers, rumors, accusations, assumptions.  Was she going to cut it?

Starling was tired of it.  So very tired of it.  She was only a student, after all.  What was to happen once she graduated?  These were the minor leagues.  The test to see if she could do the job.

_Carry on as you are, and you will continue to be dissatisfied, shunned, overlooked.  You indeed do not portray yourself here as you would at school.  That much is abundantly clear.  You're not fitting the role they expect, which is well played on your part.  _

This case had been too much for her.  Another had floated and she couldn't stop it.  Hours of skipping class, hours of pouring herself over page after page of case file, all shattered.  What was she supposed to see here?  Something, or else Crawford wouldn't have had her prime and ready on the front lines.

_Had._

It was no longer hers.  Stop wasting a trainee's time.  Or should she stop wasting theirs?

_Who the hell are you kidding, Starling?  _

Crawford didn't speak to her today, nor did he try to establish eye contact when they passed each other in the halls.  Did he not want her to see his regret, or his shame?  Was he, too, going to blame this on her small, still-learning shoulders?

She thought he was above that.  Perhaps not.

At lunch, Starling broke for Fazoli's, eager to get away from it all.   Eating out was often the only highlight of her days, as she so looked forward to escaping fellow students.  As a result of an isolated childhood, she found she was a reclusive person, surrounded constantly by others who in no means shared her interests or views.  Of course, not many people came to the academy from a Lutheran orphanage.  Her best and damn near only friend was Ardelia Mapp, and Starling preferred it that way.  Socializing with the brain-numbed members of her class was uneventful and boring.  There weren't that many female trainees, as it was; one of the main reasons she and Mapp had bonded.  Chances were if a male student showed interest in talking it was due to their supreme desire to get laid.

Starling usually dined with Mapp, but her friend had yet to show up for the day.  She toyed with calling and decided against it.  The woman was probably sprawled out on the couch still, having not recovered from the heavy drinking that ensued the night before.  It was nice to be the permanent designated driver—no one ever questioned her when she declined a refill.

Though she did not betray it, Starling was somewhat disconcerted.  Having Mapp at her side seemed to boost her confidence.  Where she was quite and polite, reserving her witty remarks for her own amusement in the mindset of keeping out of trouble, her friend never held back.  Another area of envy.  Starling had the stinking suspicion that she would never get away with such deliverance, and the thought made her sick.

_You got to admit, it's getting better, _she hummed inwardly, munching on a garlicky breadstick.  _It's getting better all the time…_

Uh huh.

_No such thing as favoritism.  Kiss my ass._

She had long ago arrived at the conclusion that life intentionally devised little obstacles and miseries, perhaps out of boredom or the need for good humor.  However, Starling was tired of feeling like a walking target.  There had to be more than this.

Especially with the unfold of recent events.  

As she sipped on her coke, picking at a serving of baked chicken parmesan, Starling felt something seize her—an unworldly premonition.  Without having to pause for self-analysis, she groaned and closed her eyes, fighting the temptation to sink directly into her pasta, as though it offered some formidable disguise.

Of _all _the restaurants…

And he just _would _approach.  How typical.

"Afternoon, Starling."

"Hello, Mr. Krendler."  The distaste was evident, rooted deeply her tone.  While she was courteous to a fault, Starling didn't have to pretend she liked it.  Negative vibes and bitter insults were expected between these two.  It was no secret to anyone, except Crawford, who tended to only see what fancied him.   

A frown creased Paul Krendler's face, head cocked to one side.  "Well, aren't you a little ray of sunshine?"

"Is there something you would like to say, Mr. Krendler?"

"I was just wondering if you have any idea what's to become of you now."  

From anyone else, that comment might have bit with rancor.  Failure this early in her career was not a good sign, even if the evidence lacked that she knew how to execute the job.  No one asked her if she wanted this.  For whatever godawful reason, Crawford had faith that she would succeed, even _exceed, _and his undying confidence was the largest factor that made her progression—or lack thereof—all the more bitter.  

But from _this _man?  Insults and sneers were expected, anticipated.  She could defeat the Spanish armada, blindfolded with an arm tied behind her and nothing more to fight with than a greasy banana peel and he would still waver to give her a genuine pat on the back.

The insults she could deal with.  However, Starling had a firm misgiving that a part of her failure could be accredited to him.  Not so much with actions as words.  Despite his ignorance, Krendler's political tug was strong, and reliable in some circles.  People trusted him, and why shouldn't they?  He always did what they wanted, said what they expected, delivered what they asked.  To what extent, it didn't matter, for they didn't care, as long as he pulled through.  This man would steal candy from a baby to console a single mother by a stroller, and compensate with ice cream for the whole family.

Even if he was already married.  Even if he had a number of mistresses on the side.  It never failed to amaze Starling how many gullible women actually accepted his slimy offer.  How they remained oblivious of his numerous indiscretions, feeling lucky to be at his side, at least until he tired of them.

Why this man got married was a mystery.  Perhaps to prove to himself and the world that he could do it.  

_And the Asshole of the Year trophy goes to…_

"Starling?" His voice, his voice!  Piercing her brain like shards of glass, a preferable situation to this man's company.  It drew her out of her reverie and back to the present.  "Did you hear me?  I'm sure you know what they're saying."

"What have you been telling them to say, Mr. Krendler?  That a trainee can't do a federal officer's work, not just yet?  That much should be self-explanatory."

"Starling, you're at the top of your class.  You're only a few months from graduation."

"That doesn't make me an agent, Mr. Krendler."  She smiled with malice.  "Now, kindly leave me alone."

"There will be no graduation for you, do you understand?  Not this year, anyway.  Not only did you _not _get the job done, but you're so far behind that your make-up work stretches from here to Timbuktu.  There ain't a stone's throw in hell that—"

Small victory as it was, she knew he was reveling in the fact that she was still a year away from true authority.  Whatever time he could buy while bossing her around was still on the market.

All of this torment because she had declined an offer that no woman in her right mind would accept.

Still, the words were on her tongue, rolling off carelessly.  Her eyes widened with anger, and she heard herself blurt: "Backed in make-up work because people put me on this without asking me!"

Her temper flared at last, and she shook her head remorsefully.  Knowing he had struck a nerve, Krendler smiled his twisted smile.

"That's the way life goes, Starling.  You don't get many choices.  Oh well.  A year ain't that long.  You'll manage."  He put on a face of console, though his eyes were twinkling, and pulled away, strutting to the front of the restaurant to place his order.

And she, sitting there, fuming with truly little provocation, came to a sudden epiphany.

_I. Will.  Not.  Take.  This.  Any.  More._

Okay, another year before graduation.  Starling seized control of over-sensitive emotions and calmed herself, snatching three more breadsticks.  Though Krendler rarely spoke the truth, that was one of the rumors she had heard. A believable one. An accurate one.  Another year.  

Another year to cope, to smile nicely and nod, to accept disappointment and the constant mockery of others.  To be looked down upon.  Inferior.  Unequal.  The same homework, classes, instructors, and field assignments.  Things she could do in her sleep, if she weren't so far behind in work.  How utterly humiliating.

Why should she believe this time around would be any easier?

A thought drifted through her mind, suddenly, without warning.  The voice she had earlier scorned rose effortlessly, and she felt herself still.  

In six months, I could have this young lady coached in ways they do not fathom at the FBI.  In six months, I could pass her off as a duchess at an Embassy ball.

Though the comment had originally infuriated her—and rightfully so—Starling swiftly perked, as though enlightened.  

_Oh could you, could you really?_

A window suddenly opened, and though she had never been one to readily seek help, she found herself at a new understanding.  Help from others, even arrogant psychiatrists, was better than none at all.  If he really believed he was that good, why not let him prove it?  Six months was more than enough time.  

Starlings don't accept failure.

Coached help or not, it was better than nothing.

Thus, as much as she hated the thought, Starling resolved to find that doctor.  That Hannibal Lecter, and take him up on his offer.  Certainly, she would lose nothing.  And as much as he annoyed her, infuriated her, made her want to gnash his teeth in, she reflected, sipping her soda, he was most certainly superior to Paul Krendler.

_Of course, that's not saying much, _she thought dryly.  _A baboon in heat is superior to Paul Krendler._

That thought made her smile.  A good-to-honest smile.  A face that hadn't known a smile in days perked with sudden mitigation.  Amused, she raised her glass to an invisible guest and toasted: _Here's to Hannibal Lecter, who is at least superior to a baboon in heat, _and drank.  

Without further prompting, Clarice Starling dissolved into laughter.  It felt good.  She hadn't laughed in weeks.


	3. Unexpected Visitors

With her mind made up, Starling jotted the name as it came to her on her napkin.  Lector, Leckter, Lecktor, Lekter, or Lecter?  Was there a 't' or was it Lecker?  Leccer?  She couldn't make up her mind, but she was fairly certain there was a 't'.  Either that, or some presumptuous letter was masquerading as a 't,' admirably, too. Oh well.  It shouldn't be too difficult a mystery to solve.  The phone book would tell her what she needed to know, unless he was unlisted, of course.  That thought was at first horrible, then amusing.  What sort of psychiatrist would be unlisted?

Well, with _her _luck…  

Starling vowed to first finish her lunch, though all the while her eyes traced the letters of the clumsily jotted name on fragile paper.  A waiter came around, offering various tables additional breadsticks.  She politely declined, suddenly fixated on mapping out the location of the nearest phone book and wanting no delays.  An incursion of incomplete duties she was allegedly to have finished by the end of the day accusingly attacked, berating her for such blatant neglect, but the sensation was brief.  Should the doctor's offer still stand—she couldn't imagine why it wouldn't; it was only made last night—there would be no work or school or ridiculous assignments for the next six months.  Half a year.  She was looking at being recycled, but as Krendler had established, that was already inevitable.

They had sharpened the stick at both ends, and there was only one way out.  

The more she thought about it, the more appealing the proposal sounded.  Six months away from cases she couldn't solve, looks she couldn't stomach, rumors she couldn't deduce, and most importantly, from the Crawfords and the Krendlers that pushed her into reluctant positions and scolded her if she couldn't get out.  Merely thinking about it tempted her to leap up and time warp on the restaurant table, but she restrained herself.

_Let's not jump the gun here, Starling.  You haven't asked, and he hasn't accepted. _

But he would.  He had to.

_And if he doesn't?_

Well, she could use six months off regardless, but it would be nice to have an excuse.

Discarding the contents of her tray into the trash dispenser, Starling hurried out of the restaurant.  Once situated in her car, she paused, considered, and decided it was best to turn to a public pay phone.  Though she didn't foresee actually _calling _the doctor, she wanted to elude the possibility of being star-six-nined and obligated to answer.  She chose the public library instead, where she would be assured a peaceful atmosphere and privacy.

In a nook, she found a pay phone complete with a directory listing.  Starling flipped open to the "L's," discarding the napkin stuffed in her purse.   Hannibal was not such a tough title to remember, and her mind had already sorted through the various spellings that might construct his last name.  

_Lawson, Steve and Stacey_

            _Layler, John and Kimberly._

_Lebanon, David and Angela _ _Lecter, Hannibal. _

            A grin tickled her lips as she finally reached for the napkin, fluently jotting down the number and address.  "Bingo," she muttered.

*          *          *

Dr. Lecter very much liked to cook, especially for company.  Experimenting with a variety of recipes was his specialty, and the outcome was always delicious.  Though he was not customarily an early riser, he made exceptions when entertaining.  It was in his hospitable nature to offer room and board to visiting friends or colleagues—even if he couldn't stand them; it was good for business—and further to make their stay as comfortable as possible.

In this instance, he was thankful for his company.  Barney was an old chum and they got along like clockwork.  He was casual enough to not stand out—aside his monstrous height—and didn't bare the look of an intellectual.  However, a connoisseur of reading eyes, Dr. Lecter knew that anyone who gave his friend a second look would see aptitude.  It was society's downfall that today hardly anyone ever paused for that subsequent and most-telling glance.

The menu this morning consisted of a montage of Lecter's favorites, though he did pause once to take requests.  Barney was never a modest eater and happily chowed through three servings.  

"Doctor," he said between bites, "this is fantastic."

"Thank you, Barney."

"Do you have any afternoon sessions?"

The breakfast ritual was one of those instances where the topic at hand could switch at random, never capturing the attention of the conversationalists.  Being one to normally eat light for rising so late, Dr. Lecter reflected this with some amusement.  "Three, rather late in the afternoon."  He paused, considering.  "I believe I will hand lunch preparation over to Mrs. Pearce.  She is an admirable cook and enjoys showing off for guests."

"Mrs. Pearce?"

"My housekeeper.  She will be arriving shortly."

Barney nodded with a significant arch of his brows, reaching for his orange juice.  "She nice?"

"Yes, though I don't associate with her much.  She works from eleven to nine, when I'm typically not here.  She has prepared supper a time or two, though I rather selfishly prefer to do it myself.  I am moderately high maintenance, you see, and I don't approve of bothering others to fit my impossible tastes," Dr. Lecter said, taking a minute to reflect his words and grin. "I suppose that sounds snobbish."

"Somewhat," Barney replied, coaxing both an amused and slightly surprised chuckle from his host.  Trust this man to be so honestly straightforward.  "But not really.  You can afford a little arrogance with this stuff, and you don't boast."

Smiling, the doctor warmed his coffee.  "I should hope not.  People can be entirely too mundane, especially when it comes to self-promotion."

"Is that why you frequent in bars?" he asked, cleaning his plate with a piece of toast.  "Seriously, Doc, those places are so _un_you, it's funny."  

"The company is always amusing, and it's beneficial for field study."

"Insomniac?"

Dr. Lecter grinned lightly and complied a single nod.  "On occasion.  Perhaps that's why I'm not an early riser."

"Yeah.  All the interesting places open at night."

"Not entirely.  Whimsical and pathetic, yes, and maybe I have had the good fortune to encounter someone with elaborate and illustrative issues rather than the implied street vendor, but not often.  I suppose you can call it a bad habit.  A morbid curiosity."  The doctor's eyes were transfixed on his coffee as he stirred it in small circles.  "Last night was an exception.  The first in a while.  I met an FBI trainee who is facing prejudices beyond her control simply for doing her job exactly how her superiors have taught her, thus far.  I believe she is breaking into a world of corruptibility, perhaps from an overly-sheltered childhood where such lessons were skipped for fear of suggestion.  Whatever the case may be, I know there is more to it, and that fascinates me.  If I can't see the problem that means there _is _a problem."

"Now, Doc, you're sounding snobbish again."

At that, Lecter chuckled.  "A psychiatrist's routine.  If the problem is not legible on a patient's face, then it is worth your while.  Whatever happened to her was enough to mold her into someone who is easily flustered and defensive.  However, she is polite in manner and represses much of what she endures, leaving it to plea for escape.  The abuse she sustains at school must be severe—she had much to vent on unsuspecting tables for the superfluous leer of vulgar young men."

"Did you catch her name?"

"Clarice," Dr. Lecter replied, not pausing in hesitation, not needing to consider.  The name was etched in his mind, and even if he never saw her again, it would remain there forever.  "Clarice Starling."

"Sterling?"

"No.  Like a bird.  Starling." Then his eyes distanced, turning to gaze out the window.  Something significant stirred, not too noticeably, but something.  This only lasted a minute, and he was back.  "A temperamental little thing, she was."

"Thank you, Yoda."  

Dr. Lecter blinked.  "Excuse me?"

Barney yelped a laugh, revealing his baby teeth as his belly shook lightly.  "Never mind, never mind."

At precisely eleven am, Mrs. Pearce arrived.  She was a plumpy middle-aged woman who had the honest-to-god _look _of a housekeeper.  After giving Barney a healthy handshake, she expressed her counterfeit joy that the doctor was entertaining guests.  "It's good for him," she insisted.  With a lovely though slightly forced smile to reveal her admirable disposition, she excused herself and began the morning chores.  

The order of the manor was very precise, and even the presence of additional company could not stir routine.  Exchanging few words with Mrs. Pearce, Dr. Lecter headed upstairs to change, inviting Barney to make himself at home in front of the television.  

Two game shows and half the afternoon news later, subtle movement from the upper level hinted at his return.  "I intend to visit the hospital today," the doctor announced as he entered the living room, changed now into work attire.  "Dr. Reynolds assured me that he had reserved that position for you.  If all goes well, you may begin work tomorrow."

"I hope so, Doc," Barney replied, flicking the news off.  "I don't want to live off your good graces longer than I have to."

"Don't be silly.  You're welcome here as long as you like."

As he was about to reply, the doorbell rang.  Dr. Lecter did not react, trusting Mrs. Pearce to deal with it.  Being one of considerate wealth, he was accustomed to receiving door-to-door salesmen and religious fanatics that always proclaimed the apocalypse was upon them.  Very rarely did he have an authentic unannounced visitor.  Most of those that ran in his social circle called before arriving, unless it was an emergency. 

Either Barney sensed this or didn't care.  He nodded and continued, "I really don't want to put you out.  I believe in earning my keep.  And truthfully, this place is a little too…"

Dr. Lecter grinned.  "Similar to a museum?"

"Exactly.  But in the best way, of course."

"Of course."

"Dr. Lecter."  It was the housekeeper.  He turned to her fluently, attentive.

"Yes, Mrs. Pearce?"

"There's a young woman here to see you, sir."

He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.  "Send her away, Mrs. Pearce.  I have no use for Girl Scout cookies.  Remind me to make a donation when I return."

"No, young _woman. _ She's maybe twenty-five.  Says she knows you."

At that, he frowned.  "Did she state her business?"

"She said she met you last night, sir.  Downtown."

Barney's eyes widened in recognition.  "The bird, Doc?  Do you think?"

Though he had not yet allowed his mind to wander in that direction, Dr. Lecter admitted a brief rush of excitement.  Ah, so the fiery vixen had returned.  "We'll soon find out," he muttered.  "Send her in, Mrs. Pearce."__

As the housekeeper retreated to show in the unexpected caller, Barney heaved himself off the couch, wide-eyed. "How would she find you here?" he asked. "Did you give her your address?"

"No, but I'm sure she has the mechanics about her to operate a phone book," Dr. Lecter replied. His voice was distant and elusive. It was difficult to decipher his reaction, even for himself. This was not a man easily taken by surprise, and it was obvious that the young woman had done so, even before she entered the room. Such fluttering was not usual, nor wanted. Voices drifted from the entry hall, and he knew by her scent it was her before she crossed threshold. 

When Clarice Starling followed Mrs. Pearce into the room, the first thing Dr. Lecter noticed were her slightly flushed cheeks that reflected almost timid determination embedded in her eyes. A woman with a mission, a cause, something significant enough to call on a stranger she met in a pub, one she seemed to hate with passion. How riveting.

The doctor fought off a smirk, wondering how he might toy with her. He knew instantly that whatever had provoked her to visit was worth his attention, and had the uncomfortable suspicion that he would oblige anything she asked of him, even on that short acquaintance. There was something about her.

But that didn't mean he couldn't have a little fun …

"Ms. Clarice Starling to see you, sir," Mrs. Pearce announced.

Professionally, Dr. Lecter nodded and crossed his arms, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "Hmm, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Pearce. That will be all." His gaze had not left Starling's, daring her to look away. Over the years, he had been told time and time again from his patients that there was something about his penetrating stare that was both enthralling and unapproachable. Something that persuaded them to share their innermost thoughts, something atrocious and wonderful. As though they expected he would lash out at them at any hint of equivocation. This had always amused him for the components of contradiction, also with the assurance that his patients regarded him with such blinding trust. 

Not many could maintain eye contact for long in the early stages of any session without at last being forced to look away. He was pleased when Starling did not. She had her wits about her, even if she was tense. 

When he spoke, she didn't jump, though she did react visibly to his voice. "You did say I could call you Clarice, didn't you?" he asked conversely. Greetings were unneeded. They had said everything already without words.

Tone aligned with fortitude; she nodded and replied, "Yes. Dr. Lecter, if memory serves." 

"I'm sure it serves admirably. You remembered enough to locate my place of residence." Dr. Lecter stepped back, motioning to his other guest. "Barney Jackson, allow me to introduce Clarice Starling. Frequenter of local night clubs."

She flushed once with anger and her eyes flared, but she held her tongue. Instead, she turned to Barney and nodded courteously. "Hello, Mr. Jackson."

"Barney, please. That 'Mister' stuff makes me edgy." 

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Dr. Lecter asked, reveling in the way he managed to snatch her attention with the mere exercise of his vocals. "From our discussion last night, I was under the notion that you were not exactly impressed with me." 

"I wasn't. I'm not. I'm here because of something you said."

"Really? Just _something? _That is rather broad, wouldn't you agree?" When she flushed further, he had to fight a grin. "Pray continue, Officer Starling. It _is _officer, I gather? You're not quite an agent yet."

"Don't be so presumptuous," she growled, temper seeping into her tone though it was evident that she was struggling with it. "I haven't told you what I came for yet." 

"Please continue. I'm at the edge of my seat."

Composing herself, Starling let out a breath and shook her head, as though trying to remember the purpose of her visit. "You seemed to see a lot last night. Saw right through me. My troubles at school and whatnot. You also said you could help."

Dr. Lecter allowed himself a slight rush of glee. "Help? Help with what?" Of course he knew precisely what, and the concept was very appealing. He just wanted to hear it in her thickly accented voice.

"Something about…" She trailed off, seemingly in thought, her mind piecing together what she wanted to say.  Obviously, she had rehearsed this little speech on the street, but the mind was a funny thing that decided when it should comply, usually choosing the most inopportune times.  Something significant flickered in her eyes.  No, she was deciding against it, shaking her head and turning as though to leave. "This is ridiculous," she decided at last. "Why did I come here? I'm sorry for interrupting your day, Doctor." 

"At least allow me the opportunity to decline, Clarice. It would be a trifle rude to come and go with no visible motive."

Perhaps it was his words or his voice, or combination of the two, but something set off the trigger, and she was lost to obey it. "School sucks. Work sucks. Everything is…_exactly _as you said it is. I never saw it before. I don't know why I never saw it before. That Krendler guy I mentioned last night…I'm going to be recycled. They had me on this case I couldn't solve…_why _I'll never know…but they did. I wasted too much time with it, and I have to start over. I won't be graduating this year." 

Dr. Lecter nodded understandingly. "Another chance, then? To start over?" 

"Yes…that's what they _want _me to believe. But…it'll happen all over again. Why should next time be any different? I'm the same, and they're the same. Being recycled won't fix anything. I'll be oldest in my class with just as much if not more discrimination." Starling's temper was rising noticeably at the mere discussion of the imminent future, her fists clinching into tight balls at her sides. With fire, she looked to him, her cause rekindled without any provocation from his voice. "Last night, you said you could have me coached in ways to avoid that. To avoid all that bullshit. I'm here to take you up on that, if the offer still stands." 

To hear her voice his statement with such confidence, the blind faith of a man whom had insulted her the night before was refreshing, exciting. What a project! However, he clamped down his reaction. No need to gratify her immediately. "You took a jesting statement from a stranger so seriously?" he asked skeptically. "Things really _must_ be awful. Why, tell me, should I help you?" 

Starling's fists constricted even further. "A jest?" Something snapped. "A fucking jest?"

"Certainly," Dr. Lecter replied with an antagonizing grin.  "Though perhaps structured with slightly more becoming language.  After all, Clarice, it is the twentieth century.  What sort of devious creature would make such an odiously self-beneficial offer to a young woman he has never before met?"

"You did, last I checked."  She suffered no waft in being referred to as 'strange.'

Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed further.  "Very interesting."  He leaned slightly to Barney, though his gaze remained locked with hers.  "What do you say, my friend?  Do we invite her in or escort her to the front door?"

"Leave me out of this!" Barney quipped.  "I want no part!"

But the doctor had obviously asked more for affect than desire of an answer, which he won.  If possible, Starling's eyes darkened further, racked with intensity.  However, he knew she wasn't so angry with him as she was with herself for the implied foolishness.  

She held her ground, though, refusing to flinch, even if her pride was somewhat tattered.  "Fine," she said.  "Fine.  You don't wanna help me?  I understand.  It must be _so _much more interesting for you to make surface observations of unsuspecting bar customers.  You don't have to bother with in-depth analysis.  This would be a challenge."

Hmmm…that was rather slippery of her.  Presumptuous and laughable, but slippery nonetheless.  

"I have patients, mind you.  Patients who pay me a commendable amount to help them sort through various issues.  Why should I invest time in you?  It will be a costly affair, and I haven't the hours to waste."  Dr. Lecter crossed his arms and began to circle her, looking her up and down like a vulture.  When he stood behind her, out of her eye sight, he glanced to Barney and winked.  "And it will take every bit of six months."

"I'm not so hopeless!" Starling yelped defensively, straining her neck in his direction though not turning.  Almost obediently, she waited until he made the full circle.  

When he came around again, his eyes flickered with tease, though he knew she couldn't see it.  Not yet.  She would eventually.  "Oh?  Then why are you here?  Turning to a man you met only once before, in a common hostelry, no less."

In a mocking imitation of his own stature, Starling crossed her arms athwart her chest, eyes slanting in assessment.  "Maybe I was wrong," she said thoughtfully, more to herself.  "Maybe you're not superior to a baboon in heat."

From behind, Barney keeled over in rich chuckles.  She grinned at him in some sort of gratification, but looked back to the doctor almost immediately, though he knew she expected no reaction.  

Ever dignified, Dr. Lecter smiled modestly.  "Manner, accent, wardrobe, and grammar.  I might have underestimated you.  A year might do it.  Opinions, Barney?" 

"I said leave me out of this."

At last, Starling looked down, reflecting some hurt.  Her eyes fixed on her shoes (which could honestly use some improvement).  "Yes or no will suffice, Doctor.  I don't need to be teased."  Miraculously, she managed to not sound pitiful, just hurt.  The girl at the end of her rope.  She clearly had no one else to turn to.  

A horrible temptation was upon him suddenly, one that beckoned him to close the space between them and comfort her with a soothing embrace.  What was it about her that screamed for both ridicule and tenderness?  No one had ever had this affect on him.  It was new and unsettling, and he wasn't sure that he liked it.  Tightly, he withdrew his handkerchief and handed it to her.

She looked up and accepted it with some hesitance.  "What's this for?"   

Dr. Lecter frowned.  Amongst other things, she was unaccustomed to kindness.  That wouldn't do.  Still, he forced himself an ambiguous façade, regarding her with as much outward tolerance as he would a sniveling three year old.  "To wipe your eyes," he explained shortly.  "To wipe any part of your face that feels moist.  And remember, that is your handkerchief and that is your sleeve," He motioned to her blouse. "Don't confuse the one with the other if you want to start on the right foot."   

Barney finally stepped forward; his eyes alight with new interest.  "Hey Doc—I've been thinking.  You said that you boasted last night that you could pass her off as a duchess, right?  From what you told me?  I'll say you're the greatest teacher alive if you can make that good."  He turned to Starling suddenly, eyes wide.  "No offense, ma'am.  There are some mighty snobby rich folk who wouldn't make any better duchesses than the next person."  Without awaiting a reply, he turned back to the doctor.  "I'll bet you all the expenses of the experiment that you can't do it. I'll even pay for the lessons."

"You haven't any money, Barney."

"I'll take out a loan and pay you back."

"You said you didn't want to be involved."

"I've changed my mind.  I want in.  I'm curious."

Arching his brows as though the proposition had _just _been made interesting, Dr. Lecter nodded, turning to him with a smile.  "Oh, you're good.  You know, it's almost irresistible.  I'll take it. I'll make a duchess of this hustling rube."  He promptly ignored her hurt eyes, though did take time to admire her promptly supported fortitude.  "We'll start today. Now. This moment.  I'll cancel my appointments.  Though Barney, I must say, I don't want to gamble with expenses.  Allow me to handle it."

With sudden promptness, the housekeeper hurried back into the room, betraying her momentary position outside the door.  The abrupt entrance stole whatever Barney was going to say off his lips as everyone turned to her.  She was shaking her head in firm disagreement; her eyes ablaze with something relative to disgust.  "No!  No!  I will not stand for it."

"Mrs. Pearce!" Dr. Lecter announced, amused.  "So glad you could join us."

The woman continued as though she hadn't heard him.  "It's unethical!  Sir, you can't take up a girl as though she's a pebble on the beach, knowing nothing about her!"

"Why not?"

            Mrs. Pearce gaped at the notion that she had to explain herself, as though the world should know in advance.  "Why not?" she repeated in disbelief.  "Because you don't know anything about her!  What about school?  What about her teachers?  She might be married, for all you know!"

At that, Starling burst out laughing, her own resilience collapsing.  "Yeah right!" she exclaimed.  "Who'd marry me?"

"By the time I'm through with you, Clarice," Dr. Lecter said, strangely serious, "the streets will be strewn with the bodies of men, shooting themselves all for the chance to meet you."

This was rewarded with a gaze that read, _'You've lost it, haven't you?' _ To that, he smiled inwardly.  She was modest, amongst other things.  Something else to note. 

"Doctor, wait a sec," Barney said, stepping forward.  "Let's be clear on some things.  We will be asking a lot of her.  Six months under constant supervision.  If this girl's going to put herself in _your _hands for six months for an experiment in teaching, she must understand thoroughly what she's doing."

"Why Barney, are you hinting at something?"

His friend shrugged.  "Hell if I know.  Just for my sake?  So I can have a clear conscience?"           

Dr. Lecter complied with a nod.  "All right, all right.  If it will make you feel better."  Sharply, he turned his attention to Starling, coaxing the first start out of her since her arrival.  At this, he suppressed a grin.  She was quick and observant but not without needing improvement.  The prospect of being the one to smooth though rough edges was exciting to no end.  However, he was all business to her, regarding her with a stern gaze and a grave tone.  "Clarice.  You are to stay here for the next six months, learning how to speak beautifully, read insight into particularly difficult cases, and cope with those who might cause you grief.  I will provide wonderful accommodations, as you are my guest.  At the end of the six months, I will take you somewhere special to place your newly uncovered mannerisms on trial.  Should all go well, that will be the end of our acquaintance, and I wish you the best.  You will face the world newly liberated, a woman who cannot be stopped from obtaining _exactly _what she wants. Should all _not _go well, then I will bid you adieu and thank you for a valiant effort."  He paused, considering, and added as an afterthought, "I never start a project unless I intend to finish it.  Once you agree to this, I will think very lowly of you for changing your mind." A cheap price, some would say, but something told him that she didn't want him to think lowly of her.  "Do you understand, Clarice?"

"Yes," she replied, her irritation having dwindled though she was attempting to hold onto it.  "It's pretty much black and white, Doctor.  I'm not a child."     

"Is all agreeable?"

"I think I can manage."

"Excellent."  Dr. Lecter finally smiled at her, a sincere smile, extending his hand.  Their touch seemed to crackle with electricity, but he denied himself a small shudder.  His reaction to her was disconcerting and curious, something he would have to explore on his own.  

One thing was certain: this was going to be very interesting.


	4. Goodbyes

Chapter Four   
  
When Clarice Starling arrived home that day, she knew it would be the last time for a long time. As her new tutor, Dr. Lecter was adamant on beginning her lessons as soon as possible, thus nearly forbade her to leave his presence long enough to return to her duplex and collect the bare essentials. After engaging in a minor though almost amusing verbal toss, he conceded and allowed her leave. While she was sure he would never admit it, she could tell the prospect of this project had sparked his interest, and daresay, he was looking forward to it.  
  
She was now conflicted with mixed feelings about this man. It seemed impossible that she had awoken only that morning fueled with resentment and hate that almost rivaled the wealth of negativity she felt for Paul Krendler. And, truthfully, though her opinion of him had escalated very little from their recent toss; she sensed a change in him. A struggle. What she saw she knew he had allowed her to see. There was a measure of intelligence behind his otherwise condescending eyes, as well as compassion.   
  
She had the uncomfortable suspicion that she could grow to like him.  
  
It was odd for her to meet someone built on wills that battled her own fortitude. Starling had had the displeasure of knowing many people, people who talked big but cowered when challenged to put their words to action. Battles of principles easily conceded, points fluently proven. That was part of her problem, she estimated, in dealing with her so-called superiors at Quantico. People like Krendler had no true backbone, they stole words from other's lips all the while contriving on thoughts that would never be original. And yet she couldn't react in the way she so desired. She couldn't scream her fury and storm away.  
  
_Perhaps you don't manage your rage. _  
  
Dr. Lecter had a great deal of self-control, and his wills challenged her own.   
  
There was something about him, something ruthless but munificent, malicious but benign. He was very contradictory, and she found that fascinating, despite how much it complicated things.  
  
She was still sore about the comments he made the night before, and his words at his abode had been far from friendly. Perhaps he was trying to decide about her just as she was struggling with her opinion of him.  
  
When Starling pushed open the door, the first thing she saw was Ardelia Mapp standing in the entryway, cordless phone coiled in one hand; both arms folded across her chest. The only feature that would make the picture more complete would be an impatiently tapping foot, but alas, it was stationary on the ground.   
  
"Ardelia," she greeted with a nod, not reacting to her rather extravagant body language.  
  
"Where have you been, girl?" The shortness in her friend's tone was frigid enough to suggest that Starling had been missing for days rather than hours. It humored her for the implied double standard. She could recall many nights that she spent waiting for Mapp to return from one of her numerous outings. It must be nice to have a social life.  
  
"Out."  
  
"Well obviously. Where? It's not like you to blow off class."  
  
"I'm going away for a while, Ardelia." She said it casually, easily, as though announcing she had bought a new dress. As Mapp processed this information, Starling decided to leave it at that, moving passed her and to the staircase. It occurred to her that she might be overdue for a break away from her friend as well.  
  
Finally, her friend found her voice, and it projected as she turned though Starling wasn't facing her. "Going away? Where? For how long?"  
  
"Six months. To this doctor's house."  
  
"Six months?!" Mapp exclaimed in disbelief. "What about school? What about graduation? Who are you and what did you do with my best friend?"  
  
At the top of the landing now, Starling paused and glanced downward, shrugging simply. "I'm not graduating this year anyway. You and I both know that. Let's face it, 'Delia, I've had the year from hell. Now, wanna come up here and help me pick out a few things? I gotta back pretty damn soon."  
  
"Who's this doctor?" she replied, ignoring the inquiry. "And why the fuck did he suddenly become so important?"   
  
Starling smiled at that, a smile provoked from dry humor and her own bewilderment. "You'll never believe it. Remember that guy we met last night?"  
  
"We met _loads _of guys last night."  
  
"The one who wasn't drunk."  
  
There was a brief silence as Mapp hooked the pieces together. After a minute, her eyes widened with incredulity and she looked up in shock, shaking her head. "No way, girl. That old bastard? After those things he said to you?" She broke to consider, a frown creasing her brow. "How did he find you, anyhow?"   
  
"He didn't. I found him."  
  
"What!" The level of skepticism in her friend's voice was steadily ascending, but Starling wasn't in the mood to argue her point or validation in ignoring this home stretch. The longer she stayed, the more she craved escape. Still, that hardly hampered Mapp's flamboyant opinion from becoming heard and repeated several times. "Why on God's green earth would you go try to find that—"  
  
"He said he could help me, didn't he?" Starling cut her off coldly before turning to cover the tracks into her bedchamber. "Only appealing offer I've gotten lately."  
  
Mapp said something but she didn't catch it. Her mind caught up with her and flustered. Despite justification, had she just defended the arrogant prick? Just because she didn't hate him as much as she did this morning didn't make them best pals. More likely she was protecting her scathed esteem. Either way, it was best not to think about it.   
  
"Wait a sec. Hold yer horses." The voice was behind her now, softer. After a minute, Starling conceded and turned. "Is this about that duchess thing? Was that what he said? Don't tell me you—"  
  
"It's complicated, Ardelia," she replied with a sigh. She knew in advance that her friend wouldn't be satisfied with that explanation, and puffed out her cheeks to continue. "Believe me, doing this crazy thing was the last thing on my mind when I woke up this morning. I dragged my ass out of bed at five am, went out for my jog…" As though the answer to her radical decision lay in the morning routine, Starling blinked and started a slow recap, though she knew not for whose benefit. "Then that dick, Krendler, came up to me at lunch…and, I can't explain it…something snapped. I found Lecter's name in the phone book and paid him a visit." She released a long sigh. "I'm going to be recycled anyway, and Lecter says he can help me cope with all this bullshit next year. Whether I believe him or not is a different story, but goddammit, 'Delia, I gotta try _something." _  
  
"But the man's a fucking asshole, Starling!" Mapp argued in astonishment. "What about that shit he said to you last night? I understand you needing to turn to someone…but why this man? Why not share these thoughts with Jack Crawford or someone and see what—"  
  
"Listen to yourself. Listen to what you just said."   
  
There was a pause. At last, her friend huffed out a breath of agreement and nodded her defeat. "All right, all right. So Crawford's not the best alternative. So he got you into this mess to begin with. That doesn't make this Lecter guy any more reliable. He's probably some old pervert who's looking to rob a cradle. You know what he said to you—"  
  
"Girl, do you even _remember _what he said to me last night?" Starling knew she didn't. No one could remember much of anything when they were as drunk as Mapp was.   
  
"…No," she admitted a minute later. "I just know it wasn't nice."  
  
"It was _true. _That's what made me upset. It was true. He knew it somehow."  
  
"So what now? You go and beg him to reform you? That's all he wanted you to do, girl. What if it's all a scam?"  
  
Starling shook her head, absently tossing her brush into an overnight bag. "It's not. It can't be. I'm not paying for anything. The only thing I'm losing is six months that I would waste anyway."  
  
Mapp blinked. "What do you mean, you're not paying for nothing?"  
  
"It's a bet. He and his friend have a bet that he can't do it." Her attentions withdrew again, but there wasn't much to collect. A few gismos here or there, but overall, Dr. Lecter insisted that she let him handle things such as her wardrobe. Fleetingly, Starling wondered if she could sneak a CD or two passed what promised to be a hefty inspection when she returned. All in all, odds fell against her favor. Well, to hell with it. Though there were certain things she was willing to concede, she was and would always be a Beatles fan. "Lecter has six months to make me a duchess, or else he's out all expenses."  
  
"Are you sure he's not just trying to get into your pants?"  
  
The notion was at first amusing then utterly ridiculous. Starling chuckled, shaking her head. "I'll tell you what, Sis," she said thoughtfully. "I'll admit I don't know him well, but what I saw from last night and this afternoon…he's a far cry from Krendler. High ratings in my book. Something tells me he'd consider that rude."  
  
"Then why aren't you packing any clothes?"  
  
"It's a part of the experiment," she replied, zipping the overnight bag, secured with a few discs to accommodate her musical preference. Though she had nothing against the classics, she was certain that listening to Beethoven and Mozart twenty-four/seven would eventually earn the rights to the good old days of sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll. "He picks my clothes. He picks damn near everything, and teaches me to like it."  
  
"So you're his dog?"  
  
"Hardly," Starling retorted dryly. "Maybe 'like' was the wrong word. It's more…cope with it. You have to do a lot of things in life that you don't _like, _per say. Putting up with shit at school is one of them. I figure: if I get through the next six months, even if it is on the skin of my teeth, I can do anything." Cynically, she used her free fist to lightly pound her chest. "I am Wonder Woman, hear me roar."  
  
"He'll have you wearing fishnets and garter belts before you can say 'Who's your uncle,'" Mapp predicted. "What's he got to lose? An old fogie who'll have you under his roof for that long… Welcome to the world of g-strings, my friend."  
  
Starling snickered as she heaved her bag over her shoulder. "Whatever." Then, without any conventional end, she started for the door, paused at the threshold, and turned back. "Listen, I gotta run. Told him I wouldn't take too long."  
  
As though in defeat, Mapp heaved out a sigh. "What do I tell Crawford?"  
  
"Nothing. Nothing at all."  
  
"He'll come looking for you."  
  
"Hah! That'll be the day."  
  
"Seriously, girl…he's got it bad for you. And, I know you don't believe this, but he feels like shit for putting you through that crap, despite the fact that he's a creep. If you don't show for school, he'll flip."  
  
Starling grinned humorlessly. "In that case, tell him I'm staying with a sexy older man for the next few months to gain a bit of maturity. Also tell him that I didn't pack anything. I need all the experience I can get. See how wide his eyes get."  
  
That perked her friend's brow, and before long they were both giggling madly. The laughter seemed repressed, almost forced, but neither could stop. Mapp started turning interesting shades of red, hunched over and holding her stomach. It was a slaphappy moment, neatly unprovoked but she needed it still.   
  
"You know…I think he'd give himself an ulcer," Mapp decided between chuckles, finally regaining control. "And I will, Starling. Mark my word, I will tell him that very thing."  
  
"You do so, 'Delia."   
  
Once more, the laughing mood dwindled and things became serious again. Perhaps a bit more understanding, they shared a long look, Mapp nodding with a kind smile. "When will I see you again?"   
  
"Hell if I know," Starling replied, puffing out another breath. "I'm sure phone calls are not out of the question."  
  
"Sure as hell better not be. I'll come hunt the bastard down."  
  
She smiled. "Bye Ardelia. Have a happy graduation."   
  
The walls began to constrict, and before farewells could extend any further, she turned and left, just like that. She couldn't afford to waste more time, for both her welfare and Mapp's. In the duration of their schooling, as long as she could remember—or as far as she cared to remember—they hadn't spent more than a couple nights apart. Such memories she wanted to preserve.   
  
Memories she would take with her now. Premature as it was, her leave almost felt final. Perhaps a lasting goodbye to the Clarice she had come to know over the years. A Clarice that let people like Jack Crawford and Paul Krendler walk all over her without speaking up. A Clarice who dealt with prejudices by opening her smart yap and getting herself into trouble, otherwise growing bitter and chilled with age.  
  
When she was out of the duplex completely, Starling indulged her lungs in a gulp of fresh air. Whatever she told her friend didn't matter, whether for the truth or the implication of truth. The fact remained that she needed the time off, regardless of the consequences.  
  
Something told her this was something to look forward to.  
  
In the end, saying goodbye to this place was easy. Easier than she thought it would be. After all, six months wasn't forever.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
It was quite possibly the first time to his memory that Dr. Lecter did not have the stage perfectly set. The dice were in his possession, he knew, as was the board with all the players. However, whichever way they fell was an entirely separate matter. In his career, he had adapted the keen ability of foreseeing the outcome of whatever event or complication that he might happen across. Now in the position of _not _knowing where the dice would fall, should they tumble off the table or remain smoothly in his grasp made him unsure if he was entirely comfortable with the proposition. However, there was an undeniably exciting air about it. Something new and riveting.  
  
Change. Mmm, change.  
  
Perhaps this was because his new protégé was so unpredictable herself. Though he did not know her terribly well, her mannerisms that morning proved that much. Showing up unannounced on his doorstep had an audacious, determined flavor about it. Not to mention the way she conducted herself in his presence; partially distracted but never straying from the ultimate goal. Never before had he met anyone so slippery. She was very intelligent, even if she didn't realize it. Dr. Lecter suspected that she had many qualities that had yet to be discovered, and as eager as he was to enlighten her, he would allow her to believe what she wanted for the time being. With Starling, he had the notion that the last thing he wanted, or would ultimately want, was to engage in battle with her. When a lion cub discovers its strength, it becomes a potential adversary, and the impending conclusion of that battle was nothing to look forward to.   
  
Even before beginning their first session, Dr. Lecter recognized that her aptitude and wit served as an enemy, mostly for her youth. From their limited encounters, he could determine why her male peers found her such a threat, thus proving both her stamina and the cheap material these associates were made of.  
  
She had spunk. A lot of it.   
  
And _he _had her to himself for six months.  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled.   
  
His young novice was thirty minutes out to collect last-minute necessities. Evidently, when she arrived that morning, she was unprepared for the implication that becoming his student meant harsher living accommodations, as well as constant supervision. After all, how was she to learn anything if she spent the day with him and went back to the barracks, undoubtedly rooming with that loud-mouthed bad-example he had met the night before? No, no, that wouldn't do. He needed her here if this project were to be successful.   
  
A familiar scent entered the room. The doctor did not react to it, rather keeping still at his desk, returning to an old favorite from his neglected library. If anything, this break from work would allow him to refresh the great classics. He doubted very much that Starling was acquainted with the teachings of Marcus Aurelius. It would be a pleasure to introduce them to her and savor the reaction of liberated youth.  
  
"Dr. Lecter?"  
  
"Come in, Barney." He didn't look up.  
  
"Doc," his guest said, taking a few steps inward and stopping just shy of the designer coffee table in the middle of the room. Dr. Lecter's office was large and moderate, composed of a mini-library to offset the more elaborate chamber down the hall. It was one of his favorite rooms, thus while he maintained the professional façade, he also successfully made it homey enough to transform into a parlor if needed. "I got something on my mind."  
  
Finally, Dr. Lecter glanced up, smiling kindly. "Of course. Sit, if you like."  
  
"No…this won't take long."  
  
"Very well. What may I do for you?"  
  
There was a moment of silence and he watched his friend contort to find exactly what it was he was trying to say. Barney was a delight for many reasons—his courtesy and candor, and his insistence that everyone feel comfortable while around him. Undoubtedly, his inquiry dealt with their new, albeit strange situation. "Doc…forgive the bluntness," he said slowly, manifestly careworn about his words. "But I've been thinking, and if I'm to be in this business, I feel kinda responsible for the bird. I don't think that you would, but I wanna be sure that it's clearly understood that no advantage will be taken of her position."  
  
Dr. Lecter blinked and grinned tightly to himself. He would have been offended if he weren't so amused. The uncomfortable temperament of his friend made the situation comically arousing, and he found no room to feel annoyed. "Sacred, I assure you. No advantage whatsoever."  
  
"I guess it's safe to say you're a man of good character where women are concerned?"  
  
The doctor barked a laugh of interest. "My friend, have you _ever _met a man of good character where women are concerned?"  
  
Barney frowned and nodded. "Yes…quite a few."  
  
"I assure you that you have not," Dr. Lecter disagreed, closing his book at last. "Myself, however, I am a man who desires nothing more than a mere opportunity to live exactly as he likes and do precisely what he wants. In my experience, letting a woman in your life coincides with snapping your serenity in two. She'll redecorate your home from the cellar to the dome. Then go on to the enthralling fun of overhauling you. Let a woman in your life and you're up against a wall. You want to talk of Keats or Milton. She only wants to talk of love. She will beg you for advice. Your reply will be concise and she will listen very nicely then go out and do whatever it is that she wants. My social companions in the past have been courtly but brief, each a replica of the other. I have no time for such foolishness."  
  
"Not the bird, though," Barney noted casually. "She's a replica of no one."  
  
"No no…" he agreed, almost fondly, as though remembering something pleasant. "Not the bird."  
  
"Something about her?"  
  
"We will see, won't we?"  
  
His friend nodded. "No advantage?"  
  
"Barney," Dr. Lecter lightly admonished, knowing he would need to say nothing more. The accusation was at first charming but it bordered now on annoyance. He was not a man accustomed to being charged of potentially behaving in any fashion other than gentlemanly where women—or any other genre, for that matter—were concerned.   
  
Nodding, Barney's eyes dropped, ashamed he had to ask. Still, despite the frustration, his courtesy and fervor for Starling to make the best of this potentially unnerving situation would not go ignored. "Sorry, Doc…I just had to make sure. Clear conscience, you know."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"When will she get back? You know?"  
  
Dr. Lecter shook his head. "I told her that I wanted to begin her sessions rather quickly, but bidding adieu to her life as she knows it for the next half year will not be easy for her. We should not expect too much today."  
  
"The life she described?"  
  
He nodded with a smile. "How very astute, Barney, but it is still all she knows."  
  
"Not for long though."  
  
"For your sake, I hope so," Dr. Lecter noted. "You placed quite a wager against me."  
  
Barney laughed, tension visibly draining from his face. Likewise, his body language softened and became more relaxed. Obviously, the inquiry had not been an easy one to make, and for good reason. Though such an occurrence was rare now, Dr. Lecter was known for a brutal temper once he lost his patience. Controlled and stately, but brutal.   
  
The doorbell rang. Unlike earlier that day, the doctor seemed more than willing himself to answer it, rising to his feet. However, he stilled as Mrs. Pearce tended to her post, always nearer to the entry than he was, regardless of her location in the manor. It was a part of what made her such an adept housekeeper, as well as busybody. Quieted chatting in the entry and Starling was directed to the study. When she entered, the pretensions fell as if cued. She seemed to have that affect.  
  
"Clarice Starling to see you, Dr. Lecter," Mrs. Pearce announced before drifting away again, most likely to her reliable eavesdropping post outside the door.  
  
For a minute there was nothing. Starling met his eyes immediately and held his gaze. Eyes locked again in exchange. All the dialogue needed for a hello or farewell passed through the charismatic practice of less conventional techniques. Never before had he met anyone as skilled in the art as he.   
  
He was continuously impressed with her.  
  
"I trust everything has been taken care of?" he asked a minute later.  
  
Starling nodded. "I talked to Ardelia…she understands. As long as I can call her every now and then."  
  
"Certainly. And your friends at the Bureau? Your courses? Have you spoken with your mentors?"  
  
"No." She sighed heavily. "And, truth be told, I'd rather not."  
  
His head tilted curiously. "Are you sure that is wise? I doubt very much that your instructors take kindly to students who play hooky."  
  
"Crawford'll come looking for me. I'd rather have Ardelia give him my message than call in." At that, she smiled, more at herself. Secretive, distant…the cat that ate the canary.  
  
Though his expression did not change, Dr. Lecter grinned inwardly. Ties to that corruption were being tested already. So much progress for the first day, even without the expected, conservative lesson. He was going to enjoy this.   
  
But she didn't need to know that.  
  
  



	5. More Visitors

Author's Note: I had a little bit of difficulty with this chapter…mainly because of the conflicting characters from the play. If you haven't seen the film, this might be very strange. My apologies if that is the case. Heh. I had the pleasure of watching 'My Fair Lady' on stage yesterday…it was both very amusing and inspirational.  
  
   
  


~~~ 

  
  
Chapter Five   
  
There was nothing for three days. While her instructors certainly thought it odd that Starling had developed the habitual of skipping school, no one approached Mapp in question. That was the way it was; either you could cut it or you couldn't.   
  
The second day she heard the first rumor. Nothing earth shattering or unexpected. A fleeting whisper in the hallway suggested that Starling had finally crumpled under the pressure. It wasn't even an accusation, more or less one more name to add to the marks etched in the women's restroom in ordinance with the remaining students. Another one bites the dust. Mapp knew of several undergraduates whom had dropped out when the courses proved too tough, but it burned her still to know the implication fit at the end of her friend's name. Especially when the actions of her very own instructors initiated Starling's bizarre reform and convinced her to turn to a stranger for whatever comfort he had to offer.  
  
Mapp still thought the doctor was a dirty old man, despite what he promised. Anyone who made that sort of bet could not be of sound mind. But as much as she hated to admit it, she was developing the nagging feeling that Starling was better off in his clutches than she was under the incessant diagnoses of her superiors.   
  
The third day she saw Jack Crawford looking particularly pathetic on the way to one of his seminars. She couldn't suppress a snicker, nor could she tear her eyes from his when he glanced over. Though she wasn't in the mood to chitchat, she was slightly eager to hear what he had to say. Unlike Starling, Mapp never suffered hesitation in speaking her mind. She had decided long ago that Crawford was long overdue for a good talking to.   
  
The man was actually approaching her.   
  
"Excuse me," he said very conversationally, doing his best to hide the nature of his manifestly new interest in her. "Aren't you Starling's roommate?"  
  
Mapp smirked, her eyes narrowing. "Nope. As of now, I'm her _former _roommate. You can find someone else to do your goddamn dirty work." At that, she paused, savoring the shock on his face though noting that perhaps this situation should be approached with caution. After all, he was her superior. While she was talented at playing devil's advocate, such situations had to be handled delicately. "With all due respect, of course…Sir."   
  
Whether Crawford was more astonished at her words or at the news, she didn't know. She wanted to think it was a little of both. "What are you talking about?" he finally barked, a flash of temper flaring. He was a man that usually kept his wits about him, not easily provoked. Some topics, she knew from speaking with Starling, were more sensitive than others.  
  
She warned herself that she had to be careful. The man was still morning the loss of his wife.  
  
"Starling," Mapp replied simply. "She's on personal hiatus."  
  
"What about her? What?"  
  
On the other hand, she was subtle with no one. This could be sinfully fun. Mapp adopted a look of shock and released a powerfully convincing gasp. "Oh! You don't know. Your own little crony and you don't know." Something between shame and anger passed Crawford's face, and she had to fight back another sneer. Cautions be damned. His expression valued a trip across hot coals. "She moved in with a doctor, Starling did. Left the duplex three days ago, I think."  
  
For a minute, there was nothing but the twisted look of hurt and betrayal. Mapp clamped her teeth on the inside of her cheek to keep her mouth shut. As a student, there were truthfully many things she would like to say but couldn't. She had spoken out of place already. However, though she didn't know Crawford very well—always conveniently skipping class when informed that he would speak, her friend had trusted him. A blind dog leading a blind man. Given her background, Mapp was very hesitant on placing confidence in one person or institution. Generally, once she met and labeled someone, it was difficult to defy it. Such was the case with Crawford. There was that notorious lecture he gave at UVA, something she made a special point to miss, which her friend—of course—attended with sickening devotion. Watching how the Guru had used that loyalty, scarring Starling in the long run, did little to alleviate her opinion of him.  
  
In Mapp's book, there was rarely anywhere to go but down.  
  
As much as she hated to admit it, there was something to be said for Starling taking this unmarked leap; she was seeing the world wasn't the colorful, friendly place she had blindly believed it to be. Even with her past as it was, the death of her father, Mapp was surprised at how she maintained the notion that people, in general were a good, morally founded populace.   
  
"What?!" Crawford finally erupted. "What about school? What about graduation? What about—"  
  
"Hell if I know," she replied with a simple shrug. "All I know is she picked up her things the other day and told me she was staying with a doctor for the next few months. Dr. Lecter, I think." Mapp knew very well that Crawford, given this information, would pay his protégé's new mentor a special visit, one she would shell out the bucks to witness. It wasn't fair to let Starling have all the fun.   
  
This was as close as she was going to get.  
  
After a minute passed, silently as he considered his shock, she added thoughtfully, "She did say he was _very _sexy. I dunno. Maybe she thinks the FBI ain't for her. Can't say I blame her. A wealthy benefactor like that…" Mapp shrugged, again clamping her teeth down to silence a wild cackle. The look on his face was priceless. "I met the guy a couple nights ago. Don't remember much, but…"  
  
"What kind of things did she take with her?" It was all he could manage, manifestly torn. _"Everything? _Are you _sure _she's not coming back?"  
  
If only Starling were here to see this.  
  
And Ardelia Mapp, true to her word—ecstatic that the opportunity had surfaced, smiled very sweetly and said very spitefully, "Pretty much everything but her clothes."  
  
There was nothing further that needed to be said; nothing more that she cared to say. Inwardly snapping a picture of his expression, she flashed her smile once more and excused herself. After all, it was time to get to class.  
  
It was perhaps the first time that Mapp ever cared to be punctual. Her smirk remained perfectly in tact for the rest of the afternoon. She only hoped to run into Paul Krendler before the day was out.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
Reformation was tedious. Now in day three of their sessions, Starling was unsure if she was made to endure these exercises for the sake of his own perverse pleasure, simply to torture her, or if there was a point to it all. Not much had been accomplished since she arrived.   
  
Phase one consisted of ridding her of her southern intonation. At first, the insinuation was horribly insulting. Starling had faced discrimination for years in credit to her tone. The idea that one man could judge dominance based on place of birth flooded her with rage. She didn't know how she was to survive six months when every other thing he said drove her over the preverbal edge.  
  
"There's nothing wrong with my accent!" she argued hotly when he announced it was the first thing to go. "Just because I don't sound all properly like you doesn't mean I speak wrong!"  
  
Dr. Lecter's patience was outstandingly tolerant, though she suspected she could drive him up the wall with the right provocation. It would be interesting to experiment and draw conclusions. There was no way she would allow these lessons to become one-sided. "My dear, I am not insulting your origin," he replied calmly, though his telling eyes allowed her to see the infuriatingly superior tease dancing in devilish pupils. "You, by all means, have no control on the conditions of your birth. Geography is one of those finer luxuries we earn the right to later in life. However, people are a clumsy and thoughtless animal, and the southern stereotype is difficult to circumvent, despite talent." Then he winked, and she flustered, something she had not yet mastered immunity to. While she was able to keep her wits about her in nearly all scenarios, there was something about both his wink and his smile that deactivated her defenses and rendered her helpless to hide any show of emotion.   
  
"There, there." His tone was so wonderfully condescending and she was tempted to leap at him and claw those prancing eyes out. "Now, again. Repeat. _A." _  
  
_"Aaaa." _  
  
"No. Less accent on the tail. Straightforward and to the point—no need to drone it out. After all, it's merely a letter. Again. _A." _  
  
_"Aaaa." _  
  
Dr. Lecter sighed and shook his head. "Dear, dear Clarice," he muttered in mock sympathy. "If you cannot master this language, how can I hope to teach you Latin?"  
  
_"Latin?" _  
  
He nodded simply, not reacting to her astonishment, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. To coax her in foreign language was one thing. Starling was prepared to shape up her schoolgirl French and Spanish, but Latin was useless. A dead idiom, used only at the Vatican, to her knowledge, and other assorted Catholic settlements.   
  
"It is the root language for all others, Clarice," Dr. Lecter explained. "If you hope to perfect your other dialects, it is best to start at the beginning."  
  
"Doctor, I'm only going to be here for six months. How do you propose I learn all these languages in that amount of time?"  
  
"Do you underestimate my ability as an instructor?"  
  
"No! I'm just saying I don't think even God could make off that well, with or without the Tower of Babel. Six months!"  
  
Dr. Lecter chuckled and shook his head. "Oh Clarice, it's not so difficult. We'll start simply. In Latin, it is merely a matter of matching the declensions with the text. Take amo, the translation for 'I love.' The stages we will cover will remain uncomplicated, given our time. I don't expect you to progress beyond the conjugations of amo, which of course descend in the order of amas, amat, amamus, amatis, and amant. Hmmm? Perhaps that and a few nouns. Let's say rex, puella, and templum. Very elementary. You will be saying it in your sleep."  
  
"Ammo? Is that how you pronounce it?"  
  
"No." He developed an almost irritated look. "Unless you associate the root word for love with some perverse fetish for firearms. Your 'a' is too soft. Try again. Amo."  
  
"Ammo," she repeated, intentionally incorrect just to see what he would do. If there was one thing she had learned in the course of the past three days, trying the doctor's patience was one of the finer treats in life.   
  
"No!" Aha! There it was. A flash of irritation crackled behind his eyes. Small victory as it was, she reveled in it. The incidents of his fortitude slipping were numbered and almost deserved a celebration. In the weeks to come, she hoped to have time to wear it effectively. This man's self-control surpassed any human capacity.   
  
Her triumph, however, was short-lived. The next she knew she, her jaw was roughly jerked to face him, and he locked her gaze with his with minimal effort. Briefly, he seemed to scrutinize her, consider her at this proximity, but the notion was fleeting and likely nonexistent. "Repeat. Amo," he commanded lightly.  
  
As she obliged, Dr. Lecter guided her chin to produce the sound he was searching for. "Amo."   
  
"There." Without releasing her jaw, he smiled, another deactivating exchange. "Was that so painful?"  
  
"No." Her mouth barely moved.  
  
"No more than its conjugations will be, but I do suppose we are getting ahead of ourselves. You must still master your own alphabet." He paused and seemed to consider, thumb moving idly across her skin. She quivered beneath his touch. "You know," he said thoughtfully. "This method is proving constructive. Recite your vowels."  
  
_"A. E. I. O. U." _She spoke with his hand guiding her mouth, his eyes flashing when she made an error, lingering on a letter a beat longer than she was evidently supposed to.   
  
"Again."  
  
_"A. E. I. O. U." _  
  
This could have gone on for some time had Barney not intervened. She was in mid-recitation when the parlor door's opened, and she expected Dr. Lecter to immediately relinquish his position, but he did not. Instead, he looked up and nodded casually, slowly rising to full stature and freeing her chin only when it surpassed his reach. "Ah. Good afternoon, Barney," he greeted considerately.   
  
"Uhhh…Doctor?" Their guest seemed embarrassed. Though he was across the room, Starling was sure she saw him redden. She smiled and immediately looked away to hide her amusement. The suggested implication was neatly ridiculous.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Mrs. Pearce wanted me to tell you that the mail has arrived."  
  
"Ah, splendid," he replied as though he was expecting something important. "Thank you." Glancing to Starling, he seemed to dismiss her, nodding a casual pardon and excusing himself from the room.  
  
"Continue with your vowels," Dr. Lecter instructed before closing the door.  
  
For a minute, surrounded by the silence he left her in, Starling did nothing. Her skin was aflame where he had held her jaw, and the notion bothered her horribly. Was it possible to flail at the touch of the same man that pressed her patience and temper to its finer limits? The room seemed empty without his mesmerizing eyes peered over her shoulder in patronizing dissatisfaction with the never-ending order to reiterate her vowels.  
  
Three days.   
  
The impression was fleeting and left her as quickly as it struck. And then she was left just as she was, a woman irritated with the world, even with her instructor, and forced to the last reliable link. Shaking her head, Starling leaned toward the directed gramophone and continued the incessant recitation.   
  
  


* * * 

  
  
Mild irritation as it was, Dr. Lecter reflected that it was for the better that Barney interrupted them when he did. For the briefest instance inside the parlor, he was sure that the air between himself and his young protégé had crackled with more than the revival of an otherwise dead language. Uncanny that she would affect him like this, only after three days. No woman had before.   
  
He composed himself at once and followed his friend into the study.   
  
"The mail, sir," Mrs. Pearce greeted, extending a handful of fat, uninteresting envelops. Dr. Lecter's correspondents usually consisted of professors asking him to lecture on the fundamentals of good psychiatry, insurance agents, lawyers, and anyone who needed money. Occasionally, he received an inquiry from the editor of one of his prized journals asking him to do another piece. Those always proved successful. Otherwise, it was routine to not check the return address and throw away anything inconsequential.  
  
"Pay the bills," he said, flipping through them once before returning them to her. "And say no to the invitations."  
  
Barney had taken station near the window, his eyes darkly fixed on the doctor, as if he had captured him in a moment of ill repute. When his minimally flared temper was not acknowledged, or even defended as misplaced, his gaze withered and softened. It was not in Dr. Lecter's nature to react to irritability, and his guest knew this.   
  
He accepted the glass of wine when the doctor offered it.   
  
"Doc?"  
  
"Yes, Barney?"  
  
Briefly, Dr. Lecter wondered if his friend would berate him for the brief display he had the misfortune to interrupt. The conflict that sprawled across his face was both amusing and courteous. This continuous exhibit for the care of Starling's comfort never failed to impress him. But in the end, but Barney shook his head and decided against it. "I was thinking, you can't go on working the bird this way. Making say her alphabet over and over, from sunup to sundown, even during meals. You'll exhaust yourself. When'll it stop?"  
  
"When she does it properly, of course," he answered simply. "Is that all, Mrs. Pearce?"   
  
"There's another letter from Bill Gates. He still wants you to lecture on the benefits of Internet investment."  
  
"Yes, well, throw it away."  
  
"It's the third letter he's written you," she objected. "You should at least answer it."  
  
"I suppose you're right. Leave it on the desk, Mrs. Pearce."  
  
She placed the envelope atop a medley of papers, studies, essays, journals, and other reading material that the doctor bothered to keep up with. "Oh, Dr. Lecter. There is a man from the FBI downstairs who wants to see you," she informed him as she made her way across the study. "Jack Crawford, I believe. He says you have his student here."  
  
Dr. Lecter paused, smiling to himself. It was only a matter of time before someone came around in search of the missing trainee, and it honestly surprised him that this was the first caller he had received since assuming the project. If Starling were in one of his regular, conventional classes, he suspected he would have made his way here days ago.  
  
And now, the infamous Mr. Crawford was under his roof.  
  
Quickly, he turned to his first meeting with Starling; rerunning her relayed, manifest betrayal. The hurt in her voice, even inside his own cavity, cut him deeper now. Now that he knew her.  
  
The initial night of her stay, Dr. Lecter had probed her protective outer wall until she caved and engaged in a lengthy conversation, for the better of the experiment, of course. Names were released then, other than the already-mentioned Paul Krendler. Though she was hesitant at first, it didn't take much to open the floodgates. Anxieties always intrigued him, and Starling had had it rougher than anyone he could recall.  
  
Her worries pleased him, but similarly stirred another emotion, one darker and disturbing: anger at those responsible for such stress.   
  
"We're going to have trouble with him," Barney muttered as Mrs. Pearce excused herself to lead Crawford to the study.  
  
Dr. Lecter shook his head. "No, I think not. Any trouble to be had, he will have with me, not I with him." Well, he reflected, with any luck. Though a tolerant man, he couldn't shake the unsettling notion that any resolve he instituted could be defied when it concerned the bird.  
  
The bird: Barney's affectionate nickname that still managed to refrain from sounding condescending.  
  
A moderately tall man entered the room behind Mrs. Pearce. Thin, gray, and shrewd. First impressions came and went. Dr. Lecter saw great conflict flickering behind his eyes, mixed with jaded sadness relating to a recent loss. This Bella that Starling mentioned to her friend the night they met, perhaps.  
  
Hmmm…  
  
"Mr. Jack Crawford, sir," his housekeeper announced before turning promptly to vacate the room.   
  
The guest waited a beat before stepping forward, trading glances from one man to the other. After a minute, composing himself, Crawford drew in a breath and began. "Dr. Lecter, I presume? Which one of you—"  
  
"Here, my good man," the doctor answered, directing him over with a solicitous hand wave. "What may I do for you?"  
  
Crawford nodded and immediately ignored Barney, the target of his inquiry spotted. "Good morning," he greeted. "I'm here on a very serious matter."  
  
Just like that, Dr. Lecter knew this man would be a delight to toy with. Nodding as though gravely concerned, he pursed his lips in consideration, turning to Barney. "Raised in Massachusetts, I should think. What is it you want, Jack? May I call you Jack?"   
  
"I don't care what you call me. I want my student, that's what I want."  
  
"Well, of course you do," he agreed amiably. "You are her mentor, aren't you? I'm glad to see you have a spark of interest in your pupil's welfare. Regardless, I don't believe she wants to see you just now. You're free to try, of course. She's down the hall, in the parlor."  
  
It was obvious that Crawford had arrived prepared to brawl. Surprise at the doctor's cooperation spread vibrantly across his face. He tried several times to piece a reply, but finally yielded to frustrated confusion. "What?"  
  
"Do as you will," Dr. Lecter replied. "Do you think I am going to keep you away from your protégé? I do have an interest in her education, even if you do not."  
  
Crawford blinked in resentment, though he flushed at the accusation. "Ah now," he said shortly. "Is this reasonable? Is it 'fairity' to take advantage of a man like that? How do you know what's best for her? You got her here, and you wouldn't if you were too concerned. She's throwing away her future. Where do I come in?"  
  
He shrugged and leaned casually, clearly unthreatened, against his desk. "Who's to say? Redirect the question to yourself."  
  
"Well…what would any teacher come for? Be human, doctor."  
  
"You sent her here."  
  
Crawford bristled and scoffed. "I most certainly did not!"  
  
The doctor shook his head heavily. "But you did, with your negligence to see how you damaged her stamina and wounded an otherwise fiery spirit. Why else would she turn to a stranger for comfort? You certainly know her better than that. I do, and I have only had the pleasure of a few days in her company. How did you come to know she was here in the first place?   
  
The man's eyes flashed. "I'd tell you, Doc, if only you'd let me get a word in. I'm willing to tell you. I'm wanting to tell you. I'm waiting to tell you." It was apparent that he was clinging to the very end of his patience, and furthermore, that he forfeited control rarely to anyone. All the more reason to patronize him.  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled. "You know, Barney," he said thoughtfully without glancing to his friend, still stationary at the window. "This fellow possesses a certain natural gift of the rhetoric. Observe the rhythm of his native intonation. 'I'm willing to tell you. I'm wanting to tell you. I'm waiting to tell you.' Almost melodic, is it not?" His grin tautened as he turned back to his guest. "How did you know Clarice was here?"  
  
At that, Crawford flinched as though it was painful to hear her given name, but he wisely bit his tongue. "Her roommate tends school with her. She said that Starling came back for her things, and that she didn't take any clothes. What was I to think from that? I ask you, as a concerned teacher, what was I to think?"  
  
A chuckle rippled through his body. "So you came here to rescue her from a fate worse than death, is that right?"  
  
There was a momentary pause as Crawford considered, but when he couldn't find a better way to phrase it, he nodded with a shrug. "That's right."  
  
"Yesss…" Dr. Lecter hissed, his eyes dancing. "I see." And then his attentions were away, but never far. "Mrs. Pearce!" The hustling busybody, stationed reliably at her post outside the study, hurried in at once. "Mrs. Pearce, Clarice's mentor has come to take her away. Give her to him, will you?"  
  
"Now wait a minute, sir, wait a minute!" Crawford objected. "We're men of the world, aren't we?"  
  
"Oh, we're men of the world now? Interesting. Yes, well, perhaps you'd better excuse yourself, Mrs. Pearce."  
  
The confused housekeeper nodded, nibbling on her lower lip. "I think so indeed." Then she was gone again, down the hall this time.   
  
"Wait! Wait!" screamed his guest, perceptibly unaccustomed to being in a position where he held no control. "I'm not about to drag her outta here. I don't have that kind of authority. All I mean to do is make sure she's all right, and that you're—"  
  
At last, the silent Barney stirred, silencing the air with his baritone voice. "I think you ought to know, Mr. Crawford, that Dr. Lecter's intentions are entirely honorable." Then he was quiet again, his tone ringing to stillness.   
  
"I'm sure they are," their guest replied snidely. "Pretty young woman and an older man. What man wouldn't kill to be in your position, Doc?"  
  
Dr. Lecter shrugged. "Believe what you want, of course. I am in no position to influence your conviction."  
  
That wasn't enough. Crawford wanted blood. Vindication for whatever ambiguous crime. Perhaps for the unbearable knowledge that a man of his age had reached the student he coveted. Dr. Lecter identified desire easily, though he didn't believe the man had come to terms with it himself. A rebound off his deceased beloved, whom he obviously had loved dearly. "Some gentleman you are," the wounded tutor snapped bitterly. His tone gritted with restrictive tightness, as if to assure himself that he wouldn't have leapt at the opportunity to do the same. "Taking advantage of a young girl."  
  
"Mr. Crawford, what would it take for you to leave? Hmm?" Dr. Lecter's eyes blazed, his temper not effectively worn, but suffering the allegation of ill manners didn't rest well with him. Though he was notoriously calm and collected, there was a line to be crossed. "Do you need to see Clarice to settle your conscience that I have not acted savagely toward her? Perhaps a generous pay off? Yes, interesting. How much are your values worth to you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Would you sell those tedious moralities that prompted you to visit me for the sake of a dollar sign?" Dr. Lecter knew the answer well in advance. Bureaucrats were too easily bought and too soon returned. This would prove a useful exercise in his further sessions with Starling. The fraud of corruptibility. "One hundred? Two?"  
  
"Now wait just a minute—"  
  
"No, eh? I suppose that should be somewhat reassuring. Shall I promote it to thousands? One thousand?"  
  
"Doc—"  
  
"Two?"   
  
"This isn't fair—"  
  
"Five?"  
  
Crawford paused. "Five? What happened to three and four?"  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled broadly, turning to stroll behind his desk. Glancing upward in brief, he pulled open a drawer and retrieved his checkbook. "Splendid! Five it is, then."  
  
"What are you trying to pull?"  
  
"Your silence, of course." He was no longer looking at Crawford, instead intent on writing out the amount. "At the time being, Clarice has every intention of returning to Quantico and your squabbling delegates once her lessons here have run their duration. If you decided—and I'm not saying you would—to open your mouth and prevent that from happening, I foresee the feats we are working to accomplish here amounting to very little. This…" He held up the check, watched the man's eyes widen at its authenticity, "is to remind you that your pupil is working to better herself, to return and repeat her year with better dealings on discrimination, what little good it might do." Carefully, he placed the check on the corner of his desk and stepped back in ode to ownership. "If this makes you uncomfortable, I will not watch you accept it. It is not necessary to witness your deceit. I will not look at it until you are long away. Perhaps Mrs. Pearce may make some use out of it if you don't care to."  
  
Barney, at the window, watched this transaction with the utmost fascination. When Dr. Lecter glanced in his direction, he read that his friend knew very well what Crawford would do. Neither flinched in surprise when he moved forward and slipped the check off the surface and into his waiting pocket.  
  
"I don't feel good about this," he let them know, and it was true. So plainly true that the doctor might have pitied him if distaste had not begun to fester and boil.  
  
Money was money. Green was green. And though he might like to deny it, Jack Crawford was no different from the rest. He put on many different faces for many different people.  
  
"Regardless, it is in your possession, and I will not take it back," Dr. Lecter said shortly. "Please make your leave, Mr. Crawford. I believe you know where the door is."  
  
A brief hesitation, but he agreed with a somber nod. The air curtained densely, encompassing a house that had not known such silence in three days. It already felt bizarre. Starling had a very real presence here.   
  
It didn't last long.  
  
"I won't! I won't! I won't!" Without any prolonged entry, the woman of the hour burst through the closed study doors, eyes livid and followed closely by Mrs. Pearce. "I won't say those fucking vowels one more time!"  
  
She stopped short in the doorway and stared deadly at Crawford. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, a winter storm brewing behind her voice, immediately ignoring everyone else in the room. It was one of her greater talents—acting as herself in front of any company. Starling never wore masks. What you saw was what you got, and similarly, what you got left you wanting nothing more.  
  
Not many would realize that.  
  
Crawford was bewildered, and his face reddened like the child whose hand was discovered deep in the cookie jar. Watching someone contort in conflict was always a pleasure, but Dr. Lecter made special note to savor this. Shame sprawled across the man's face, along with failure and self-resentment. In that, his true colors were revealed. Kind and thoughtful, someone who truly wanted the best for his students, but no less besmirched. The handsome check, cheap paper money, which resided in his pocket was proof of that. The doctor was almost insulted that he had settled for such a minimal amount. A person's life could not be measured with nickels and dimes. Especially not Starling's.  
  
It was another one of those secret delights he would keep from her.  
  
"I was just on my way out," Crawford announced. "Goodbye, Starling."  
  
And he was gone, brushing past her without another word. She remained immobile in confusion, anger shielding the better part of her senses. It seethed off her in no attempt to remain concealed. Dr. Lecter enjoyed the primitiveness of her emotions, and relished them as though they were his own.  
  
"What did he want?" she asked a minute later through gritted teeth. Her eyes blazed and finally met his.  
  
Much to his surprise, he was unable to stop the small shiver that ran through him in affect. However, physical reactions were easy to manage and manipulate, and he quickly regained control. "Say your vowels," he ordered, promptly ignoring her question. It was best she didn't know just yet.  
  
"I _know _my vowels," Starling snarled. "I knew them before I came."  
  
"Well, if you know them, say them."  
  
_"A. E. I. O. U." _Her tone rang of the West Virginia hills, modest effort as it was.  
  
"Wrong!" Dr. Lecter grinned widely, shooting a brief glance to Barney, who was dumbfound. "Listen and repeat. _A. E. I. O. U." _  
  
"That's what I said! _A. E. I. O. U." _  
  
Suggested irritation. Excellent. Her fire was brief but consistent, finding a victim wherever it went. In time, she would scream her fury at Crawford, perhaps to his face. That _would _be delicious.  
  
There was still that possibility that he could build better than he knew, and that one day that anger would release on him. Not that he hadn't seen a flare or two, but he doubted Starling knew the taste of real rage.   
  
They would both find out in time. But for now, there were more important things.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  



	6. The Rain in Spain

Author's Note: All right, this chapter covers a portion of the film that flies in about ten minutes. The movie goes through the passing months between songs, and rather than insert a setting break every time a day or week or so on passes, I decided to leave it up to the readers to determine how far into the scheduled six months Dr. Lecter and Starling have progressed. Forgive me for any impending confusion.  
  
_Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?   
  
Norwegians learn Norwegian; the Greeks have taught their Greek.   
  
In France every Frenchman knows his language from "A" to "Zed"...  
  
The French never care what they do, actually, as long as they pronounce in properly. _  
  
- Professor Henry Higgins  
  
  
Chapter Six   
  
Vowels were just the beginning.  
  
Any thought or notion of time seemed irrelevant and was hardly kept, though Starling suspected that Dr. Lecter had his own records on how much progression was being made. She only knew what day it was when she asked; all blending into the same blur. Hours and seconds and minutes dissolved bit by bit into a never-ending pool of inconsequentiality.   
  
He was the epitome of both sides to either extreme. On one hand, he was a harsh and controlling instructor who berated her for knowledge she did not possess that was, by his definition, 'commonplace.' However, he could be fair and understanding, and similarly, he rarely let her see those colors, as though he were saving them up for some festive occasion. In the end, Dr. Lecter was not so unlike a drill sergeant. Over and over, coinciding with blatant memorization and a good ear for catching the differences in one's intonation.  
  
Today they were in the study, Barney at his usual perch: listening but trying not to. Dr. Lecter insisted that he stay for these exercises and avidly encouraged input or suggestions, even if he did not take them.   
  
"Now, Clarice, repeat after me," he instructed, standing behind the sofa on which she was seated. "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."  
  
Starling nodded, having heard it time and time before, rolling it in her mouth to try to find her ear. However, when her lips parted and words left her, they still sounded of West Virginia, rooted deeply into her system. "The raiene in Spaiene stays mainly in the plaiene."  
  
"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."  
  
"Didn't I just say that?"  
  
"No, Clarice, you didn't just _sigh _that. You didn't even say that. Every night before you get into bed where you would conventionally say your prayers, I want you to say, 'The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain'...fifty times." He moved around where she could see him, his dancing eyes that seemed ever more condescending when he was scolding her or mimicking her accent. There was a part of this that was too much fun for him. "I know it's a habit you haven't exercised in some time, my dear, but do try to revive some of those pious strings, if only for the plain in Spain. Now, for your Latin. Recite present tense singular."  
  
This she didn't have to think of too terribly much. Starling found that remembering her Latin root words was easier when applied to a small tune, and she often hummed it to herself during her downtime.   
  
Either way, it had worked until he presented her with the more complex conjugations. Who knew there were so many ways to say 'I love' in Latin?   
  
"Amo, amas, amat," she said flawlessly.  
  
"Plural?"  
  
"Amamus, amatis, amant."  
  
"Very good." Dr. Lecter nodded his satisfaction. "Now for the imperfect."  
  
This she had to consider. It wasn't as simple as setting it to a tune, though she was still trying to work one out. "Amabam…amabas…amabatis…" Pause. She bit her lip in thought. "Amabamus…amaba…bant?"  
  
"No, no, no." He sighed and shook his head. "Amabam, amabas, amabat, amabamus, amabatis, amabant."  
  
Starling scowled. "How the hell do you expect me to remember all these things?" she cried in minor retaliation. "You said we were going to keep it simple."  
  
"I said that we would work on the various conjugations of 'amo.' I have remained faithful to that," Dr. Lecter argued softly, his own tonality needing no accent to deliver its enormity. "Pity I never mentioned how many there are."  
  
Starling's eyes flared and she shook her head in firm disagreement. "You had me recite the present tense, and that was it. Now all this crap about the imperfect and the pluperfect and the future perfect…how much do you expect me to learn?"  
  
"All of it. Ever last annunciation to match every last translation," he replied simply, which infuriated her all the more. Starling's fists balled and her nails dug into open palms so fiercely she would have pierced herself had he not he continued. "If you want to develop an ear for Spanish, start at the beginning. Clarice, you make this to be much more difficult than it truly is. I assure you, I will not ask you to personally translate Dante's _Inferno. _I'm very aware of how much time we have and have not set unrealistic objectives. You will know these conjugations backwards and forwards, upwards and downwards by the time I am through with you."  
  
And she believed him. There was something in his eyes aside from the complacency of superiority that let her know his convictions were as solid as her own, and that he would not say something only for affect. His words were always put to actions.   
  
The fine passage of time. Aside from Latin, Dr. Lecter was ardent that she know her French alphabet from A to Zed. While she still had yet to master her own vowels, now there were foreign letters to consider. He liked switching on her at random, sometimes in mid-recitation.   
  
_"Yes please. French! No, no. Remember, the French 'e' has an 'eu' sound. Try again. Very good. English! No, no, no. A. E. I. O. U. Again. French!" _  
  
When she was tired and couldn't go on, he demanded she give him a weather report for that plain down in Spain. When she felt her throat was raw and could barely speak above a whisper, he tested her Latin and wouldn't relinquish until every word was pronounced correctly. Night and day, day and night.   
  
It was wearing on Barney and Mrs. Pearce as well. Often, they stayed up until Dr. Lecter decided that she had had enough for one day and allowed her rest. As he was traditionally one to prefer night to day, he suffered no exhaust in working her late into the evening.   
  
There was still that accent to perfect.   
  
The odd thing about her lessons remained consistent with the fact that in her youth, when asked, Starling could imitate a nearly perfect northern brogue. Now, though, now when she needed to put it to good use, her previously natural ear had abandoned her. She was left only instinctive roots which would have begun to annoy even her by now if she wasn't so offended at the insinuation that they should. Dr. Lecter's relentless teasing to correspond with the expected scold left her bitter, but eager enough to please that she tried again and again to get it right.  
  
While she was still buried in vowels and Latin conjugations, the doctor thought it best to extend her lessons. He was nearly convinced that her tone and grammar were the only steppingstones besides the irreplaceable upbringing that separated their defined stations in society.  
  
After they mastered the art that was the English language, Dr. Lecter had agreed to review the case that had dragged her into this hole in the first place and attempt to point out all the loops she missed. Starling thought it a bit presumptuous that he believed himself more insightful than those whom had been working on it for the better part of a year. The expertise of a psychiatrist had already been consulted, and he saw nothing more than had Jack Crawford and his merry band at Behavioral Science. However, if the doctor wanted a stab at it, fine by her. That was, after all, part of the arrangement.  
  
Starling was beginning to agree with Barney. What possessed the man to think he could make it _that _good?  
  
They could fuss over the details later. For now, there was an accent to wheedle out.  
  
Several days later, Dr. Lecter's new tactic was announced—a xylophone, a tool he used in therapy. Though bewildered, Starling was grateful for the change in exercise. Anything was better than reciting those incessant vowels.   
  
"Here, Clarice," he said demonstratively. "Listen closely." Then, methodically, he beat out a pattern of chimes, reminding her of a technique her English teachers used years ago to guide the students in the rhythm of iambic pentameter. "How kind of you to let me come," he declaimed to the tempo. "Repeat."  
  
"How kind of you to let me come," Starling returned when he chimed again.  
  
"No. Kind of you. Kind of you." She could hear what he was doing with his voice but couldn't repeat it for the life her. "How kind of you to let me come. Again."  
  
"How kind of you to let me come."  
  
Dr. Lecter shook his head with minimally exhibited irritation, as if he knew she had done it in the past and was regressing instead of leaping forward. "No, no. Kind of you. Kind of you. Similar to _cup of tea. _Kind _of _you. Cup _of _tea. Say _cup of tea." _  
  
She flinched inwardly. "Cuppatea."  
  
"No. Cup _of _tea."  
  
This might have been amusing if it weren't so humiliating. Barney sat at a small table to the far right of the doctor's desk, pretending not to listen. She always knew when he felt sorry for her for he attempted to cut in with something trivial to divert her instructor and allow her a few minutes to collect her breath. "This is really good cake," he said, seemingly to himself but loud enough for everyone to hear. "I wonder where Mrs. Pearce gets it."  
  
"First rate, of course," Dr. Lecter agreed. Though he was never successfully distracted, he used the insinuation to allow Starling a small—very small—break. "And those strawberry tarts are to die for."  
  
"Mmm," Barney said, mouth full as he nodded. "Did you try the plaiene cake?"  
  
All movement in the room froze. Barney paused awkwardly in mid-chew and glanced up apologetically.   
  
Starling was having a hard time swallowing her chuckles. She knew what Dr. Lecter would see when he looked at her again, and furthermore noted that she could care less.   
  
Finally, when the silence threatened to become awkward, he turned back to her, evidently deciding against comment. "Try it again."  
  
A booming baritone from the other side of the room answered. "Did you try the—"  
  
"Again, please, _Clarice." _  
  
It was a futile request that she couldn't have performed in any circumstance. Still choking on muffled sniggers, all she could manage was, "Cuppatea."  
  
Agitation flashed behind Dr. Lecter's eyes and her amusement dissolved. These brief instances of revealed temperament were not as amusing as they had once been. It was perhaps the first time that she wholly failed to take pleasure in the knowledge that his infallible patience was thinning. Despite Barney's humorous blunder, Starling was growing irritated herself. She felt she was reaching for something that she could see, arms outstretched and waiting, close but yet so very far away.  
  
"I know you can hear the difference," he said a minute later, obviously registering her shared frustration. "Try this. Put your tongue forward until it squeezes on the top of your lower teeth. Good. Now, say _cup." _  
  
"Cup."  
  
"Say _of." _  
  
"Of."  
  
"Now say _cup, cup, cup, cup, of, of, of, of." _  
  
"Cup, cup, cup, cup, of, of, of, of. Cup, cup, cup, cup, of, of, of, of. Cup, cup, cu—Of, of, of, of."  
  
As this incantation continued, Barney looked up again, evidently having clinched control on his overactive accent. He frowned a bit but shrugged it off. Though these methods didn't seem orthodox, Starling knew that he trusted Dr. Lecter's guidance. "Do you want this strawberry tart, Dr. Lecter? Last one."  
  
At the mention of an unclaimed snack, her stomach emitted a highly audible growl to which neither reacted. She didn't realize how hungry she had become, and though it was far from healthy, the mention of a sugary delight nearly made her mouth water.  
  
"I don't believe so, thank you."  
  
"Shame to waste it."  
  
"Oh, it won't be wasted." Dr. Lecter paused thoughtfully. "I know someone who is immensely fond of strawberry tarts." Then, ever the hawk, he turned to her, eyes narrow with scrutiny. "Cup _of _tea, Clarice."  
  
"Cup _of _tea."  
  
"Amo, of the perfect sense."  
  
"Amavi, amavisti, amavit, amavimus, amavitis, amaverunt."  
  
He grinned wickedly and winked. "I notice your accent improves when you want something. Take a break, Clarice, and tend to that wailing stomach."  
  
There were times when he surprised her with consideration and generosity, and other times when she wanted to claw his eyes out. His methods were thought provoking, if not a little strange. If she did something correctly, he encouraged her progression before noting that they still had a long way to go. Under normal circumstances, he was patient but strict with the numerous areas that needed improvement.   
  
_The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain. _  
  
The Beatles CDs that she snuck in the first day had long ago been confiscated, replaced with Bach, Beethoven, Mussorgsky, Mozart, all of which she had to learn to identify based on piece, style, and time period before he returned her preferred taste. On various outings to town, Starling was horribly tempted to purchase a Charlie Daniels record and play it full blast sometime late in evening to catch his reaction at authentic country. Unfortunately, she was under constant supervision when they left the manor—the alleged complex study of her behavioral changes since coming under his care. She very much doubted he would tolerate a glance through such a disagreeable section.  
  
To Starling's surprise, she found some habits were reforming, reshaping. She had known uneducated southerners all her life, and for the first time, she found her mouth tugging to a frown when she heard someone speak a sentence that was nor grammatically correct. Such was both heartening and dispiriting. She had no desire to change, and she suspected it was not Dr. Lecter's motive to do so. Thus far, her lessons had suggested nothing but a better ear and sharpening tastes. After a few weeks sipping fine wine, she found she could no longer tolerate the taste of beer, nor the hard liquor Mapp kept in the house. This he let her sample for his own studies, and she was guaranteed a smile when her face contorted in disgust.  
  
No matter how her manner improved, how ever much her posture perfected or vocabulary enhanced, enunciation and intonation were still holding her back. While Dr. Lecter never ceased his techniques, but it did not hamper him from throwing her new curves.  
  
Today's was the most bizarre exercise she had yet endured.   
  
"…Three, four, five, six marbles." Dr. Lecter sat back, glanced at her briefly, not reacting to the very obvious way her jaw could not close, instead holding up a small poetry book. "Now, I want you to read this, and I want you to pronounce every word just as if the marbles were not in your mouth." Fluently, he offered a demonstration, turning it to his own eyes though she knew he had it committed to memory. _"How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail. And pour the waters of the Nile, on every golden scale. How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws. And welcomes little fishes in, with gently smiling jaws." _Finished, he looked up again and handed the book to her. "Every word, clear as a bell."  
  
Starling's eyes bulged. "'ut—"  
  
"Ah-ah," he scolded lightly, motioning to the work resting limply in her hands. "Read to me, Clarice."  
  
Pitifully, she frowned and glanced to her lap, bringing the work to eye-level. "'his is i'oss'i'le, 'ust so you 'o."  
  
"It is not impossible. Read to me."  
  
_"How doh' 'he lil roco'ile i'rove his shi'ing 'ail. An' 'our 'he wa'ers 'rom—" _Miserably, her eyes wandered upward again. "I con! I con!"  
  
"Dr. Lecter, are those pebbles really necessary?" Ever-loyal Barney, standing uncomfortably at the window, pretending to read a book, asked softly.   
  
Sympathy was not a color the doctor wore, and should he, he concealed it very well. "If they were necessary for Demosthenes, they are necessary for Clarice Starling. Go on, Clarice."  
  
_"How doh' 'he lil roco'ile i'rove his shi'ing 'ail. An'—" _  
  
"Articulately, my dear. I can't understand a word you are saying." He spoke casually, leaning backward. "Again. _'How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail. And pour the waters of the Nile, on every golden scale. How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws.' _Just that much."  
  
"Hey Doc, maybe that poem's too hard for her. Try something simpler."  
  
Starling flushed angrily. "I' 'ot a 'ild, you—" But before she could complete the notion, she felt one of the stones squeeze passed the others and into her throat. Though it was small enough to refrain from choking, she lurched forward and spat the remaining five into her hands, coughing harshly.   
  
"Is something the matter?"   
  
She would have been angry if she had the strength. The size of the marbles had obviously been determined before placing them in her mouth, the patronizing amusement tainting his tone made her glow with fury. Starling knew he often found humor at the expense of others, but for whatever reason, it hurt still. "I swallowed one!" Unable to hold the marbles in her quivering her hands, she let them drop to the floor and did not look at them as they rolled under the table.  
  
Not reacting, though his eyes were dancing, he reached for the jar on his desk and replied simply, "Oh, no matter. I have plenty more. Say 'aww.'" Furious but unable to do anything other than what he requested, Starling glared at him ineffectually for a few wasted seconds before obligatorily opening her mouth.   
  
"One," he counted mercilessly, placing the first at her tongue, winking at her. "Two, three, four…"  
  
What was it about him that made her believe this was worth it? The madness of it all? The humility, the degradation, the implication that everything she had based herself on these many years was flawed in some fashion or another. Was it for herself, for the promise of what he could teach her, or for the thrill of not knowing what he was going to do next? How his mood would be, if he would smile his kindness and offer her strawberry tarts or flash in mild irritation as she failed to pronounce the subjunctive form of the pluperfect translation for amo properly.   
  
Still, after so much time working with her stubborn accent, Starling could tell her nerves were beginning to wear.   
  
Morning noon and night, on and on. Recite your vowels! _A. E. I. O. U.   
  
Just you wait, Hannibal Lecter, just you wait. _  
  
Of course, there was the knowledge that progress, in some way or another, was being achieved. One day, she caught herself humming _Night on Bald Mountain _instead of _Love, Love Me Do. _She found herself reaching for the first time in many mornings for her slippers rather than her jogging shoes. (On occasion, she had snuck out early enough to indulge in a brief run. Though she doubted Dr. Lecter would object, there was no point chancing it). She no longer needed Mrs. Pearce's direction on selecting or applying her wardrobe. Her hair, which had always come naturally for her, usually rested at her shoulders. Now she experimented with various styles, all of which were relatively simple once she became accustomed to it.   
  
Nights that her vowels weren't being drilled were spent reviewing her Latin like a restless teenager preparing for a final exam.   
  
And there were further obstacles to come. Dr. Lecter promised to give her cooking lessons, though he didn't believe she and the kitchen got along very well. It was, he said, to assist her on those late nights, to coax her to the refrigerator rather than the phone book.   
  
When she wasn't studying Latin, Starling heaved out the case file that had given her so much grief and carefully evaluated each worn page again and again.   
  
Much to her astonished dismay, the doctor lived up to his word, one step at a time. It took less than a casual flipping through to arrive at a first conclusion. "He covets," Dr. Lecter said before returning the file to her. He would not elaborate or speak any more on the subject. "Say _A." _  
  
That night, the speech lessons came finally to an end. Mrs. Pearce had left for the evening and the manor was quiet, dark. Barney was dozing in a proverbial dream-state in a chair beside the corner, muttering incoherencies. Starling took seat sleepily in front of the desk.   
  
"The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain," Dr. Lecter said slowly. Unlike his guests, he was alert and sharp, as though it were the middle of the afternoon. His brisk tone that suggested no hint of fatigue surged Starling with the temptation to leap at him, yet she couldn't scrape up the strength.  
  
"I can't!" she snapped instead. "I can't! I'm so tired!"  
  
Barney mumbled in his sleep. "Doc…it must be three in the morning. Can't you please be reasonable?"  
  
"I am always reasonable," he argued, standing emphatically to prove his point. "Clarice, if I can carry on at this hour, so can you. You have spent enough evenings frequenting bars, haven't you?"  
  
"Not in the recent!" Her voice would have sounded more forceful, but she yawned and settled back sleepily. "I'm so tired, Dr. Lecter. You're not going to get much from me when I can barely keep my eyes open."  
  
He sighed and glanced downward, moving around the desk. "I know you are tired," he said, his voice low and sociable, as she best liked him. Slowly, he took the seat behind her, manipulating his most valuable weapon to all its deadly, deactivating venom. Toning himself just right, his voice was soothing, reasonable, and compassionate, ignoring all communal barriers. Dr. Lecter always knew when to use it, too, right when her irritation was unsurpassable only by the promise that things could always get worse. "I know your head aches. I know that your nerves are raw, and that many a day passes when you wish I would go mute if only to abstain from this repetition of those godawful vowels. But Clarice, picture what you are dealing with. Think of what you are attempting to overcome. The majesty and grandeur of the English language; it's the utmost tenure we possess. Not only to divide the classes, but also to defeat those stereotypes that have so long defined you, hurt you, made you to do this gracious, selfless thing. Not for your good, but for everyone whom has faced such prejudices. That is what you've set yourself out to conquer, Clarice. And conquer it you will." For an instant, the air between them crackled. Starling found herself lost in the incessant pinwheels of his ever mischievous eyes, those which had many different seasons, many different climates and temperatures. How was it that he was able to do that, say that, by using only simple manmade words? How was it that he could mold her in such a way that she would go from hating him with a passion to wanting to throw her arms around his neck in some fashion she had only seen but never experienced? It was a wicked, devilish technique.  
  
Nevertheless, it worked. As much as she hated to admit it, it worked.  
  
Regaining her breath, Starling nodded as best she could.  
  
"Good," Dr. Lecter murmured, his own voice perhaps not as stable as it had been a minute before. She would have reveled in such knowledge if she had been more alert and not recovering, herself. "Now, try again."  
  
Then his shielding warmth was gone, forced away as he stood and drew himself out of her eyesight. Starling concentrated, her breath catching. She knew he had moved behind her, most likely positioned at that window Barney found so interesting throughout the day. If the past couple months had taught her anything about the doctor's habits, it was that he preferred using sensory other than sight to intake and estimate the progress. Never before had she wanted to please him as she did now. To do well not for the sake of her fatigue, but for his approval. Her mind focused; exacting, retracting, going backward and forward to find her voice. That voice she had used time and time again in her youth.  
  
And then she had it. A divine spark of recollection, tonality she knew she possessed. Starling lunged for it, grasped it and held it tightly, unwilling to let go. If she spoke it, she would have it forever.  
  
"The..." she said slowly. "The rain...in Spain...stays mainly...in the plain."  
  
If she hadn't been so sure she could make it, she would have guessed her ears had deceived her. Behind, she felt Dr. Lecter pause. A beat passed. "Again..."   
  
Equally slow, Starling twisted in her seat to meet his eyes, holding firmly onto her voice. It was hers now and feared it would leave her against her better judgment. It did not. "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."  
  
More movement. Barney stirred from his seat, wide awake now.   
  
"She has it," the doctor muttered, voice scarcely containing his excitement. "She has it. Once more, Clarice. Where does it rain?"  
  
Similar enthusiasm was building within her, a smile spread from ear to ear. The intonation sounded flawless to her, and natural, as though she had spoken nothing else all her life. She had to clamp down on the desire to leap up and dance. All previous exhaust dissolved, succumbing to success. "On the plain," she answered without one imperfection.  
  
"And where is that soggy plain?"  
  
"In Spain! The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!" Starling could no longer contain herself. She sprang to her feet and began jumping up and down like a giddy schoolgirl. Perhaps it was the fatigue, but she suspected not.  
  
"Not too fast, Clarice," Dr. Lecter warned, though his eyes were dancing with her. "We don't want to break into celebration prematurely. Amo, present tense."  
  
"Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant."  
  
"Perfect tense."  
  
"Amavi, amavisti, amavit, amavimus, amavitis, amaverunt."  
  
"Imperfect."  
  
"Amabam, amabas, amabat, amabamus, amabatis, amabant."  
  
There was no immediate praise. She did not want or expect it, though his expression betrayed his pleasure. Barney stood stupefied in the corner, regarding her as though he had never seen her before.   
  
Without speaking, Dr. Lecter moved to his xylophone and beat out a familiar tune. He glanced up to her expectantly.  
  
"How kind of you to let me come."   
  
A smile finally spread nether his lips, and he advanced on her. The sight made her flush. "Once more, Clarice, where does it rain?"  
  
"On the plain. The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."  
  
"Enough of that, Doc," Barney interjected, glowing more profusely than either of his friends, as though the largest burden had housed on his shoulders. For an inkling, Starling felt a rush of sympathy for the man. She knew these lessons made him uncomfortable, and that he must be overjoyed to have a portion of it conquered by the sheer pitch of intonation. "This calls for a celebration. Music, anyone?"  
  
The jubilee was succinct but fun. Dr. Lecter indulged Starling in a brief dance around the study to one of his favored Bach arrangements. Around the desk, chairs, even Barney a few times, they circled. This joyous occasion. This overpowerment of her most difficult impediment.  
  
But as soon as they began moving together, she was no longer thinking of plains or Latin conjugations. Her mind, the treacherous tool it was, betrayed her and wandered into darker, unexplored territory. With his arms around her, she fluttered atypically, overwhelmed by the nearly intolerable whim that her feelings toward him were entering a perilous terrain. The notion flavored her distastefully, and her good spirits began to dwindle to confusion. Perhaps it was the hour, or the thrill to know one of her primary obstacles was defeated, but she didn't think so. Not with this reoccurring stir in the pit of her stomach. Not with the way their touches seem to ignite.   
  
He was still an insufferable egotist, but she was beginning to like it.  
  
She hated the thought that she liked it.  
  
Still, though no one should argue logic this early in the morning, Starling knew that she could have danced all night and still have begged for more.  
  
When the festivities ended, she had all but lost her strength. Dr. Lecter resigned himself to carry her to her room and tenderly placed her under the covers. He mentioned something about going to town the next day, or whenever he could make arrangements, but she wasn't listening. Seconds away from dreamland, the last thing she felt was his lips above her forehead, and his voice at the doorway.   
  
"And how do we first begin to covet? We covet what we see every day."  
  
The door closed and she tumbled off to sleep.   
  
  



	7. Etiquette

Author's Note: This is for Helene.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  


~~~ 

  
  
Chapter Seven   
  
The next morning arrived too quickly.  
  
While Dr. Lecter was hardly an early riser and similarly did not expect anyone else to be, Starling still received a wake-up call from Mrs. Pearce at ten. Her ability to build a day on three hours of sleep had abandoned her with lack of practice. Though it was not too far in the past, that part of her life seemed vague and distant. Far away. Long gone.  
  
Her time here was not a walk through the park, but she did enjoy the freedom to experience leisurely paced mornings. It was the first time in years that an alarm clock hadn't buzzed at the crack of dawn. For a while she had continued to awake early, always comforted by the fact that getting up was not a requirement.   
  
The longer she stayed, the more Starling observed what she called—with growing familiarity—her 'former-life' as belligerently repulsive. No human should work that hard and rest that little with such unsatisfactory compensation. It occurred to her that her old habits would revive when the six months came to an end, but it was something she didn't want to consider. Not now.   
  
When she was fully alert, her immediate concern fell to her accent and the fear that it was lost to the previous night's fatigue and she would have to work to find it again. Before Mrs. Pearce—who, in light of Dr. Lecter's unusual circumstances, was set on a tighter schedule—could leave, Starling bound to her feet and motioned her to stop.  
  
"Please tell me I'm not speaking with an accent," she pleaded. To her ears, her voice was clear, unchanged from the advancement made last night. However, having taken more than one course in psychology, she was familiar with the manner in which the mind could conjure something out of desire.  
  
Such was not the case here. Mrs. Pearce's eyes bulged and a smile broke across her face. "That's amazing!" she exclaimed. "I take it your session with the doctor last night was a success?"  
  
Starling grinned, stretching sleep from her tired body. "It would seem so. Really, no accent?"  
  
"Darling, you sound like an angel."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Pearce."  
  
It was the first morning in many that Starling regarded with a cheery disposition. She chose her outfit for the day and enjoyed experimenting with her hair, not settling for the first style that agreed with her. Dr. Lecter was waiting to begin the next phase in the floors below. A few weeks ago, she would have hurried to beat the clock, always terribly apprehensive of being tardy. Not anymore. Let him wait. Nothing was going to ruin her mood today.  
  
Hell, she was even looking forward it, to seeing her overhauling instructor. Starling felt she could swallow a whole jar of marbles without complaining.   
  
As for the events following the past night's victory, she preferred not to think about it. In morning light it was simple to pass off such delusions to the credit of weariness and the thrill of conquering the handicap that had been holding her back rather than anything truly significant.   
  
That didn't change the knowledge that she could have easily danced all evening if only to lose herself in his arms.  
  
Some things were best left ignored.  
  
When she finally joined the others downstairs, Starling was greeted with his imploring eyes that scrutinized her with more than his vulture leer. It seemed his gaze had intensified in those few short hours apart, perhaps in the same response to the prior evening's finale. Before she could say good morning, the look flickered and died and Dr. Lecter insisted with authority, "Where does it rain, Clarice?"  
  
"In Spain," Starling answered without a second's hesitation.  
  
That said, the demand left his eyes and he smiled one of his neutralizing smiles. "Good morning, my dear," he said as though he had just seen her. Fluently, he stepped aside and motioned her inward. "Would you have a cup of tea?"  
  
Starling nodded, summoning the common though enhanced courtesies that were becoming more and more natural. "Good morning, Dr. Lecter. Yes, a cup of tea would be lovely."  
  
"Say _cup of tea." _  
  
"Cup _of _tea."  
  
"Barney," Dr. Lecter said, eyes still fastened on hers. "Pour Clarice a cup of tea, if you will."  
  
"I'd be glad to, Doc."  
  
Her mouth tickled with a grin. She was certain that Barney Jackson was the only person who could get away with addressing the doctor with such non-formality. Though Dr. Lecter was much too gentlemanly to openly correct someone lest it got out of hand, never once did she see him flinch when the word left his friend's lips. All at the hand of the beholder, she supposed.  
  
Barney never spoke a condescending word, and that undoubtedly had a great deal to do with it.  
  
"You did immensely well last night," Dr. Lecter complimented after she had sampled a taste of flavored tea. "I have thought about this, and I believe it is time to put these newfound mannerisms on trial."  
  
Starling blinked and dread began to form, chilling her insides and deactivating her high spirits like a cold shower. Anything involving this man and a test could not be something to look forward to. "What do you mean?"  
  
Of course, he read her discomfort immediately but did not react to it. Whereas this would have aggravated her in the past, Starling found she was accustomed to such deliberate indifference. The lack of response to the emotions of those around him was something she once considered insensitive; but perhaps it was the intelligent approach. There was no use in conforming to put everyone else at ease. "I have an acquaintance who recently asked me to a meeting with her elite circle of friends, what she called a conference in Baltimore. The invitation was extended to one guest and myself. What do you say, Clarice? Do you feel you are prepared for the blatant cruelty and humbug of patrician society?"  
  
That didn't sound so bad. She released a breath as tension heaved off her body. The chance to test everything he had taught her over the course of their time together. Such promised to be rather beneficial. Inside these walls, Starling never adapted an idea how the upper class truly maneuvered. What she knew now was a combination of listening to and studying Dr. Lecter's habits and mannerisms. This could be good for her.  
  
However, at the same time, the notion that she would have to mingle in this so-called landed gentry and their palpable lack of probity was nerve-wracking. Suppose she messed up and betrayed her position? What then?  
  
One thing she did know; if she stayed penned up with little more contact with the outside world bordering on occasional trips to town, she was going to lose her mind. And either way, Starling reflected, if she did trip over herself there was little to be ashamed about. These were people she would likely never see again, and even if that weren't so, their stations would differ to the point of not being able to distinguish where last they saw each other. The only thing that would be scarred permanently was Dr. Lecter's name.  
  
She would have to consider if it was worth that. It didn't take long.  
  
"I think so," Starling decided. "That is, if you're confident that you're up to it."  
  
Amused, Dr. Lecter's brows arched. "I would not have suggested it otherwise. The question is, Clarice, are _you _up to it?"  
  
"I guess we'll see, won't we?"  
  
"That we will." Then his eyes left hers and swept over her body, stirring something frighteningly familiar in her stomach. Though she discerned his intentions were far away from those of other men she had the misfortune of knowing, the feeling left her shaken and confused. There was something about _his _eyes moving over her that differed in a horribly _similar _fashion to initiate another round of self-scrutiny.  
  
"Hmmm," Dr. Lecter hummed in consideration, drawing her attentions back. "We will be needing to take a trip to town. I'd like to see, Clarice, if your taste in clothing has improved since our last outing. Tomorrow, is that agreeable? We have three days to prepare."  
  
"Prepare?"  
  
His smile was almost foreboding. "Dress is only a part of the challenge, my dear. We must work with etiquette."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with my manners!"  
  
"Oh no. Of course not. Not for conventional societal gatherings," he agreed. "For this, I'm afraid, you are unprepared. The esteemed Mrs. Rosencranz will spot a fraud a mile away if your behavior is not exactly as she expects. She will act very nicely, of course, but if she catches on, dear Clarice, you can be assured that her friends will as well."  
  
"Mrs. Rosencranz?" Barney asked, coming forward with more tea. "Wasn't she a former romantic attachment, Doc?"  
  
"Very former," he answered nonchalantly. "When she was Ms. Rachel DuBerry. One of those women I described to you some time ago. She was very pleasant, but the type that invites an army of her friends to jabber and to chatter and to tell her what the matter is with you, amongst other annoyances. Useless hubbub. She found someone that thankfully tolerates such nonsense." He then turned back to Starling, eyes alight with something significant. "I am not sure who else is on the guest list, and I will alert Rachel of the conditions before I introduce you. Remember, you are demonstrating everything I've taught you, and more importantly, everything _you _have learned. Do you understand?"  
  
"It's pretty much black and white, Dr. Lecter," Starling replied, denying the inward jesting that prompted jealousy to know the woman she was meeting had a history with her impossible instructor, however he defined it.   
  
What _was _wrong with her?  
  
He nodded, his head tilting curiously. Whatever was on her face, she knew he could see. Over the years, Starling adapted abilities than enabled her to hide any renegade emotions from her peers and instructors. It didn't take much; not many people bothered to look. She let them see what was needed, usually to the effect of a note of distaste to escape uncomfortable situations. However, standing before Dr. Lecter now, she was stripped, bare, left with the helpless feeling that everything she thought and every notion she carried was not and never would be private.   
  
Starling had yet to realize that she hid better than she knew, and what she saw on his face—rather than scrutiny and arrogance—was frustration that he could not peel answers to unasked questions from the layers of her eyes.  
  
"Yes, I would imagine so," he said at last. Neither heard the edge to his voice, but it reverberated around the room and seemed to give it life. "Do you care for some breakfast, Clarice? Mrs. Pearce was kind enough to provide us with a few flavored bagels this morning."  
  
"She didn't happen to get flavored coffee, did she?"  
  
At that, he smiled, eying the steaming drink in her hand. "Are you not satisfied with the tea? I believe we can manage to locate a cup of coffee."  
  
"Right away, Dr. Lecter," Mrs. Pearce answered without waiting to be asked, hurrying out of the room as though shouted at.   
  
The doctor did not watch her exit but his smile broadened in gentle humor. Eyes locked still with Starling, he extended his arm and said sociably, "Shall we? I believe this will prove to be a long exercise."  
  
"And you know what they say about the early bird," Barney noted. His comments were always a pleasant addition, usually very numbered but always thoughtful. A satisfying break from her instructor's hard analysis.  
  
For some reason, this seemed to heighten Dr. Lecter's amusement, and he chuckled lightly. "Indeed, my friend," he agreed. "Indeed."  
  
Starling scowled, suddenly feeling like the pun of a joke. Several bad experiences of her past left her bitter about being left out of the circle, and reprimands, useless as they were, tickled her tongue. However, she swallowed her words, collected herself and accepted his arm. She ignored the shiver that raced up her spine, but knew by the strange shift in his eyes that he felt it just the same. "Seriously, Dr. Lecter," she snickered in attempt to withdraw his attentions from alarmingly inexorable physical reactions. "It's just one dinner. I'm really not a Clampet."   
  
"Yes, yes." Tease hissed in his tone and his gaze had forfeited the look of far and away. He was himself again. "Lest I remind you, my dear, that you just last night perfected an accent we had been working with since your arrival."  
  
"An accent is one thing," she argued stubbornly.  
  
"And this next menial activity, Clarice, may or may not prove to be even more troublesome. Who can say?" Again he grinned, one of those deactivating smiles that she resented for its infuriating influence. "Barney, please direct Mrs. Pearce to the dining room when she returns."  
  
Any remaining protests abandoned her. Long ago, Starling had concluded that arguing with Dr. Lecter, though sometimes amusing, was a fruitless activity. She soothed her mildly flared temper with the reassurance that someday the tables would be turned, and conceded to follow him without further complaint.   
  
The dining room was masterfully set. Mrs. Pearce brought in the promised bagels and coffee. She also placed a few moderately thin books on the buffet beside the table, and quickly made herself scarce.   
  
This seemed odd, but Starling was too enamored with awaiting the doctor's instructions. She took a few bites of an asiago cheese delight before her attentions were drawn to more mundane concerns.   
  
"Did you ever participate in any school plays, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter asked as she set the bagel down and sampled a taste of French Vanilla coffee.   
  
"No. I wasn't—I'm not—a people person, Doctor."  
  
At that, he chuckled. "That makes two of us. Well, for shame. Your first impression will make you, you see. When you walk to that table, you must radiate an air that you own it, but similarly that it means nothing to you."  
  
Starling cringed. "Isn't that a little..."  
  
"Yes," he agreed. "But it is what will be expected. Now, we're going to begin with posture."  
  
"Posture? There's nothing wrong with my posture!"  
  
There was a heavy sigh. "My dear…if you assume such a defensive position to every area I suggest could use a little improvement, we will get nowhere. You must differentiate mannerisms from character flaws. Everything you know right now, every lesson you have been taught by any teacher excluding myself is hereby null and void."  
  
She shook her head defiantly. "Are they _seriously _going to look that close? To how I walk up to a fucking table?"  
  
"Well, let's see." Smoothly, Dr. Lecter turned to the buffet and selected one of the novels placed by Mrs. Pearce. "Walk back to the doorway, Clarice." She did as asked, disgruntled variance slowly leaving her face. "That's a good girl," he jested mockingly. "Now…I want you to approach the table as you would regularly, with this on your head." Then he placed the book atop her crown and delivered another infuriating smile. It stank of arrogance and the foreknowledge of where this was going, as though his point were already proven. "If the book falls, it proves your posture needs improvement. If it remains perfectly balanced and stationary, then you have my full apologies, and we move to the next task."   
  
For a minute, there was nothing. Starling glared at him for long seconds before turning her attention to her destination. Already, the book wobbled a bit in reaction to movement. God, how she hated him sometimes. Changing seasons again. He was a snake: charming and deadly, perilous and unpredictable. Always slithering to find a new way to aggravate you.  
  
Then it was over, and she knew she had to proceed. Drawing in a breath, Starling took one step and frowned as the addition on her cranium wavered. However, stopping was not an option, nor was alternating speed. She continued.  
  
Two paces later, the book toppled to the floor and she growled a tangle of incoherent curses.   
  
Dr. Lecter did not move or speak, but his satisfied smirk was worth a thousand words.   
  
Starling huffed out a breath and narrowed her eyes. "There. You happy?"  
  
"Pick up the book, Clarice. We'll start at the beginning."  
  
And so they did. In an hour, she had made the journey from the doorway to the table more times than she wanted to consider. Each at a reduced speed, each with the book adorning her head, each exceeding the last stopping point and concluding with a return to the start.   
  
It was a simple enough task, though the table with every failure seemed to gain another foot in distance. Starling swallowed her growls of frustration, unaccustomed to not mastering an ostensibly effortless task within the first attempt or two. These areas were the only she did not excel in, feats and proficiency she thought she would never be asked to exhibit.   
  
If someone handed her a gun and asked her to shoot one of the candles off the table with her eyes closed, she had every faith that she could do it. Aim was one of her fortes.   
  
Starling was, undeniably, a tomboy.   
  
_You can take the girl out of the country…_  
  
Amazingly, Dr. Lecter never lost patience with her. Every time she returned to the doorway, he would make a suggestion but nothing more, as though willing her to keep her temper. It was a welcome variation from old routine. After observing attempt after another, he finally pulled her aside and allowed her a break. She munched miserably on her bagel and drank the remaining coffee, now chilled with age.   
  
"Do you want Mrs. Pearce to warm that up for you?"  
  
"No." When he arched his brows, she demonstratively downed the rest, hiding her inward grimace at the cold bitterness that tasted something like the remnants of vanilla. "See? I've had more than one morning with cold coffee."  
  
"You don't have to while you are here."  
  
She snickered. "What does that matter? I have enough to worry about without adding coffee to the list. I can't even walk to a goddamn table right."  
  
Dr. Lecter tsked and shook his head. "Be mindful of language, my dear. Your posture is improving," he said quietly, voice absent of all its former tease. Again, he took powerful command over her better senses, deactivating self-aimed frustration. "And it will continue to do so. Notice, Clarice, that when you approach the table, your arms are outstretched at an angle, perpendicular to your hands. Why?"  
  
Starling frowned. "For balance. What else?"  
  
"Will you walk to the table like that in three days?"  
  
"Not unless there's a book on my head."  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled softly. "Try without, this time. Learn to trust yourself, and not to expect failure. Do not think of the book on your head. Pretend it does not exist. Pretend I do not exist. Pretend you are in the room by yourself." Gently, he reached for the discarded title and placed it again on her crown. "Now turn around and try again."  
  
So she did, inwardly marveling at the way he could maneuver her with so few word and changing seasons again so fluently. How he could confuse her thoughts, muddling them into a swarm of indistinguishable notions and whims. Reluctantly, her mind wandered to the previous night once more, how it felt to be lost in his arms as he swept her around his office. It seemed distant and transparent, though she felt it vividly.  
  
And she would have made it to the table had her thoughts remained with the doctor and his unpredictable flashes of mood and not wandered to the novel on her head. It crashed with a devastating plop and she nearly fell with it in strangled defeat. Immediately, Dr. Lecter advanced, grasped her arm and pulled her upright.  
  
"You almost had it," he said. "Here. Come back." This time, he took place at the doorway, putting the book on her skull once more before wrapping his right arm across her abdomen. "We're going to take this slowly. Advance one, step back two. Advance two, step back one. Keep your arms at your sides. At no time fight for balance. Understood?"  
  
"Yes." It was barely a whisper. Against her back was the heat of his chest. She was confronted suddenly with the desire to simply recline her head against his shoulder, and might have if not for the inconvenience of the book that stood in her way.   
  
"Good. And begin. One." He stepped with her, muttering lowly into her ear. First step successful. "Back two." As if in a dance, she followed him, her mind entirely enveloped in his surrounding warmth. The weight on her head evaporated. It was only her and Dr. Lecter, advancing slowly, as slowly as she might have liked, to the table. Forward two. Back one. Forward one. Back two. Not once did the book waver. And before she knew it, her fingers brushed the surface of fine wood refurnishing. Momentary glee flushed through her and left just as quickly as his touch disappeared, blasting her with an unexpected cold front. Starling fought a shiver and clamped her teeth down hard on her lip and quickly recollected herself.  
  
When she felt it was safe to look at him, he was smiling. "Very good," he said shortly. "Again." However, she knew in advance he would not guide her. Unsurprisingly, he took his observatory position and left her to return to the doorway, replace the book on her head, and do it over again.  
  
Second time remained victorious. The third time she was instructed to walk simply for the table as slowly as she liked—no mind of how many paces backward and forward. By the fifth instance, she had paced herself healthily, her regular speed. Each attempt afterward succeeded without a hitch. When Dr. Lecter was satisfied, Starling was walking as quickly as she did in the preparatory lap before a hefty jog.  
  
"Excellent," he complimented. "Now, when we arrive, I will escort you to your seat and push in your chair as you sit." Then he was beside her again, offering his arm, which she accepted only after a second's hesitation, collecting herself. Once seated, he turned to indicate the placing before her.  
  
"When you are seated at the luncheon, there are a few things you must remember." Starling nodded, still in a half daze, and leaned back. Aside her plate were more forks than a normal person should use in one afternoon. A cloth napkin was decoratively displayed in the middle of the dish, and her water glass was filled, the last flakes of ice melting.   
  
So this was the table etiquette that he teased her about. She suddenly felt like Julia Roberts.   
  
When Dr. Lecter began speaking again, her attention was absorbed. She wondered absently if he ever considered teaching as a career; having no doubt that he could sustain the interest of all students in any given classroom. "Your water glass is to your right," he said. "It is _always _to your right. Nonliquids, such as your bread plate, will be at your left." He reached forward then and took the napkin from her plate, moving directly behind her chair, where she couldn't see. Then his arms came into view, and his mouth was beside her ear, murmuring softly. "There are three places for your napkin, and three places only. One: In your lap, when you are seated at the table. Two: On the seat of your chair, if you are leaving the table but intend to return. Three: To the right of your plate when the meal ends and we are ready to leave. Not, in any circumstance, are you to place it elsewhere. Do you understand?" As he spoke, he situated the napkin primly in her lap, lingering as long as he liked and only retracting his hands slowly to the arm of the chair when the task was thoroughly executed.   
  
"Yes," she answered too quickly. It was barely a whisper.  
  
If he noticed her shortened breath and elevated pulse, he didn't flicker a beat of recognition. Instead, Dr. Lecter maintained the professional façade, mouth still provocatively close to her ear, speaking lowly. His tone was intoxicating. "Your napkin only has one purpose. Never use it to wave the attention of the staff, or any other seemingly innocent uses. Now…" His voice wavered a minute, left hand motioning to the display of silverware beside her plate. "I know you are unaccustomed to so many dinner utensils," he observed. "Not to worry. The method of remembrance is simple and fluid. Tell me, Clarice, which course of the meal is your favorite?"  
  
She blinked and struggled a minute to find her voice. "Doctor, I've never attended any…suppers where there has been more than one course."  
  
"So I suspected. Do you like dessert, Clarice?"  
  
Did that question have a deeper implication? Starling forced her thoughts away, berating herself uselessly. "Yes."  
  
"Would you say it is your favorite part of mealtime, when you partake?"  
  
"I guess."  
  
"Then simply consider the precession of the forks as stepping stones to dessert," he suggested. "Work your way inward. The outermost fork is for your salad, because you will use it first. The middle is for the main course, and the last for dessert." He paused, his hand finding her chin and turning her eyes to meet his. The air was so thick she thought she might choke. For brief seconds, his eyes implored hers, searching, finding everything to her knowledge, masking his own frustration when he failed to see more than she revealed. "Do you understand, my dear?" He said at last. "Do you think you can remember?"  
  
Lost still, Starling felt her head nod once again, her skin against his, senses slowly betraying her. It was a chain reaction, one after another, though they did not leave her completely. Rather, sensory in itself absorbed into one mass, escalating to unexplored territory. Again she marveled at his numerous sides; the pieces and colors of himself that he initially kept hidden were emerging slowly, as they became more familiar with each other. Gradually, Dr. Lecter was allowing her to know him.   
  
It was only the other night that—in frustration of her then-difficult Latin exercises—that she threw her course manual to the ground, gnashed her teeth and scurried to think up a real killer-insult, resulting in a meager, however amusing, "Amas haedos!"  
  
His smile then was not as charming and disengaging as it was now. Rather, it reeked of superiority and amusement. Condescending like before, wickedly cruel. Before he spoke a word, she was aware of the mistranslation and had to fight the temptation to drop her head to her arms and muffle a scream. "I assure you, Clarice," he had said. "I do not love young goats." And he left it at that, smile remaining annoyingly in tact as he drew himself to the upper chambers and retired for the evening.  
  
It seemed impossible that the incident was only a few days behind them. Starling felt the spark of fury arise within her again, but its anger now melted to something unthinkable.   
  
How _did _he do that?  
  
"Yes," she answered at last. "Yes, I'll remember."  
  
"Name them for me, if you will. In order."  
  
She did so flawlessly. It honestly wasn't as difficult to remember as she thought it would be. After a few recitations, Dr. Lecter was satisfied and drew away from her at last, coming into sight.   
  
"Any questions?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I'm going to test these mannerisms tonight," he stated. "Barney will have the night off, as I am sure he well appreciates. You and I will dine alone—here." Then he trailed off, eyes growing distant, seeming to focus somewhere behind her. Starling waited, denying herself the annoying rush at this announcement. These reactions were getting out of hand. A few minutes before, she had been barely able to catch her breath.   
  
What was that aggravatingly wonderful thing about him? The knowledge that she may well very soon want to blow his head off again only seemed to accentuate the stirring within her stomach.  
  
Mapp's forewarning suddenly sounded loud in her ears, abrupt and unprovoked.   
  
_"Are you sure he's not just trying to get into your pants?" _  
  
If he was, he was taking his ever-loving time.  
  
Dr. Lecter was back a beat later, capturing her eyes with a flick of his head. "Is all agreeable, Clarice?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good. Now, I would suggest you take the rest of the afternoon to review today's lesson. You might consider going over your Latin conjugations once or twice." That earned a particularly sharp look, to which he chuckled and brushed off. "Oh, I know they become tedious, my dear, but we wouldn't want to squander last night's triumph and have to start at the beginning. Dinner will be ready at seven."  
  
And then he left, simple and unannounced. The conversation hadn't seemed over, but she supposed that didn't matter. Starling spent a few quiet minutes to herself, unsuccessfully attempting to banish the afternoon's provocations. If she couldn't survive a casual lesson simply as the aftershock of one dance, how did she hope to get through the night?  
  
It would be interesting. Humiliating perhaps, but most definitely interesting.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
When evening approached, Starling became aware that her instructor would evaluate her performance tonight on a scale of different levels, and that failure in one area could potentially affect another. Dress was inevitably one particular trial of concern. While she didn't think he expected her in her Sunday best, he would undoubtedly frown on a casual selection. She considered inquiring Mrs. Pearce's opinion, but the woman was preoccupied with work and would likely exhibit poor judgment.  
  
Her wardrobe was vast and her decision, as it was, didn't take long.  
  
As recommended, she reviewed her Latin and occasionally recited the weather of Spain's plains to be doubly sure her accent was in tact.  
  
At 6:45, she headed downstairs; weary to be sure she was not accompanied by singing teakettles. Starling drew in a breath and looked to her dress. It was one that Dr. Lecter chose on their last trip to town. She recalled being surprised at his taste—it was long and elegant, black and tight fitting, something to suggest and not show what was underneath. The only thing she could do without was the thin excuse for straps that held it over her body, but she decided that, all things considered, it was a cheap trade for such sophistication.  
  
Still, she would be sure that he was wearing something similarly stylish before entering the dining room. She was uncomfortable enough when she arrived at classy events in casual wear—as numbered as such occasions were—but she positively hated being overdressed.  
  
A cautious peak inward. The doctor was there, as she suspected, and clad splendidly. Starling exerted a breath as quietly as she could and began to pull back, paused, and leaned forward again.  
  
"Damn," she muttered appreciatively to herself.   
  
"You may come in, Clarice," Dr. Lecter said softly, but very obviously to her. She jumped a bit in surprise and initial embarrassment.   
  
However, when she walked in, she saw that he hadn't heard her. The conclusion came instinctual, not requiring concrete evidence. When he looked up to scrutinize her entrance, she saw it was her scent he had recognized. His nostrils flared approvingly.  
  
"Love the dress," he complimented shortly. It was authentic but not overdrawn.  
  
"You should. You picked it out."  
  
"Touché," Dr. Lecter replied with a grin. "Please, have a seat."  
  
When he approached to pull her chair out for her, her pulse began to race again. Starling had decided that afternoon to give up denying the reaction he provoked within her, but had no idea how she was to ignore it.  
  
He didn't comment on her entrance. That either meant he was simply observing without correcting or she had pulled it off appropriately.   
  
"Would you care for some wine, my dear?"  
  
"That would be lovely, thank you."  
  
Dr. Lecter grinned favorably at her mannerisms but didn't comment. "Mrs. Pearce will serve the salad shortly. You are pleasantly ahead of schedule, Clarice. I was hoping you would be." He drew back when her glass was filled with a sufficient amount. "I thought we might discuss the case file you gave to me a few weeks ago."  
  
Mild disappointment tickled her senses, replaced immediately by horror that she could regard the heavy burden so casually. It was as though the lives of future victims didn't matter when compared to the taste of a nice Amarone. However, despite her attempts, there was no denying it; shop was the last thing she wanted on her plate.  
  
What was it about being here?  
  
If she continued to ask herself these questions, she would go mad.  
  
When Starling returned to herself, Dr. Lecter was seated at the other end of the table. She took her napkin off her dish and settled it nicely into her lap. It didn't deliver the thrilling shudder as it had when he demonstrated the proper form earlier that afternoon.   
  
"Have you come to any conclusions?" she asked casually.  
  
"Oh yes. Several. I wonder…have you read it, Clarice? The file?" His eyes widened dangerously. "Everything you need to find him with is right there in those pages."  
  
That was it. That was all it took to sway her loyalties back to the homeland. Interest was perked. A grippingly familiar feeling took command of her. She was suddenly months younger, sitting in the presence of Jack Crawford, leaning forward to the point of tipping out of her chair. Pleasure was traded for professionalism. Former distaste was discarded without further provocation. It was a reliable ice cream flavor that would never discontinue. She had almost forgotten the thrill of the hunt. "Then tell me how," she whispered, eyes clear of former, now forgotten, repressed yearning.   
  
"Refer to the principle ideologies, Clarice. Hmmm? Simplicity. Of each particular thing, ask what is it in itself. What does he do this…man you seek?"  
  
Starling blinked. "He kills—"  
  
"No!" The doctor disagreed with her with such fierceness that she jumped in her seat. There was fire in his voice. "That is subsidiary. Ask yourself what need he serves by killing. Firstly. What self-constructed essential does he satisfy?"   
  
Silence answered. Minutes ticked by uncomfortably.  
  
He sighed heavily, as though her ineptitude reflected scantily on him. "I told you this already," he said softly. "When last we—"  
  
The light sparked to life. Starling's eyes widened and she nearly jumped in her seat with acknowledgment. "He covets!" she hissed victoriously.  
  
A smile rewarded her. "Yes. And how do we first begin to covet?" More silence as her high subsided to a stupefied nonbeing. As she battled with the forage of answers that attacked simultaneously, nibbling on her lip in thought, his eyes remained level with hers, evoking her attention without struggle. "I told you this as well, though I don't think you were awake enough to remember. We begin by coveting what we see every day."  
  
Her face brightened with an attack of déjà vu, and her chin found home on folded hands, focus completely enveloped.  
  
"I know you have experienced this," Dr. Lecter continued. "You feel eyes moving over your body constantly. The unwanted leer of overly appreciative young men. It is human nature. An unavoidable slab of sensory. And likewise, your eyes seek out the things you want."  
  
At that, she shot him a particularly sharp look as her face flushed. It was an awkward place to wheedle in an innuendo, but she didn't put it past him. "What do you mean?"  
  
He issued her one of his stimulating smiles. "Advancement, of course. Why else would you be here?"  
  
"Oh." She settled, though whether with disappointment or relief, she didn't know. "Right."  
  
Salad came shortly and Starling selected her fork without a hint of difficulty.   
  
"I was wondering, Clarice," Dr. Lecter began minutes later. "I am to understand that your career thus far in the Bureau has been unsatisfactory, correct?"  
  
She scowled, thoughts immediately drifting to Paul Krendler. "Yes."  
  
"And you still want it? More than anything?"  
  
The question was genuine. It sounded odd to hear an inquiry escape his lips that she knew he did not hold an answer for.  
  
However, she didn't hold the answer, either. Weeks, even days ago it would have come to her naturally, quickly, without hesitation. Now, though, now that she was beginning to appreciate the finer side of life, to reflect on everything she was missing simply by not living…was it worth it?  
  
Yes. Of course it was.  
  
Ummm…  
  
There were things she would experience through the FBI that would otherwise be impossible. Lives to change, people to save, risks to take. This and that. Starling did want it, very much. More than anything. To succeed. To live doing what she was good at, what she was made to do.  
  
What she told herself she was made to do.  
  
"Yes, Dr. Lecter. I would say so."  
  
"Why?"  
  
She blinked, though the dreaded phrase was inevitable. "Pardon?"  
  
"The world you described to me. The bigotry, the offhanded comments, these men to the likes of that Krendler fellow you mentioned. Do you honestly believe returning with a few refined mannerisms will change that?"  
  
Starling was absolutely speechless. It had never occurred to her that anything else could be the result. After all, if this was the case, then why was she here at all? Wasting her time and his?   
  
Or was there more to it?   
  
"Of course things will change," she barked a defensive moment later. "When I know how to read into cases…when I—"  
  
"Do you sincerely trust that success is your ticket to happiness?" The doctor asked skeptically. "That once you prove to these fortune seekers that you are quicker and cleverer than they that your stature will rise among them, and the taunting will cease?" He leaned forward, sprinkling her heart with doubt. "Or, Clarice, do you think it is more likely that these powerful enemies of yours will do everything in their authority to cut you down, make sure you do not get the recognition you deserve, and scare you away before you make that one colossal mistake that ruins every good agent?"  
  
"What colossal mistake?"  
  
"I suppose it depends on the agent. Your Achilles heel, Clarice, whatever it might be. What makes and breaks you." Dr. Lecter leaned back. "Now tell me truthfully, do you believe a few lessons in protocol will help?"  
  
"Why are you asking me this?"  
  
"Isn't it obvious? I want to know."  
  
"If the answer is no, will you ask me to leave?"  
  
"No." His tone took a strangely serious turn, as if to accentuate his good word. "No, and I believe you know that. I told you before we started that I never begin a project without having the full intention of seeing it through. You will not leave this house without myself or Barney at your side before the six months is over, unless the assignment is terminated at your disposal. But we have already discussed that." With a sigh, he seemed to gaze off thoughtfully, but she knew he was still with her, knowing exactly what he wanted to say, pausing only for emphasis. "I want to know you, Clarice. The more time you spend here, the more harm I see in your future. I have known several in the profession you seek, and none of them are happy. If anything, you are a person who deserves happiness."  
  
Heavy silence. Heavy, thick silence. For a minute, Starling forgot to blink or breathe, lost in his eyes, astounded by his sincerity. In all her years, she had never had such a vote of good will. Not from one of her mentors, relatives, or friends. Even her deceased father had left the earthly world without giving her such reassurance.   
  
He continuously surprised her. However, for some reason, she wasn't surprised that he would be the one to tell her this. It seemed, like so many other things, inexorable.  
  
She wasn't just a person who wanted happiness; she deserved it.  
  
But before she could open her mouth to thank him, to reciprocate, say anything however worthy or unworthy as such a compliment is owed, Mrs. Pearce reentered the dining room and smiled heftily.   
  
"Dinner is served."  
  
Thus the salad plates were taken away, replaced with the main course. By the time conversation resumed again, the moment had passed, and did not represent itself through the remainder of the evening.  
  
After dinner, Dr. Lecter walked Starling to her room. He announced that she was free to sleep in the next morning as long as she wished, though there was a planned trip to town to select her attire for the luncheon.  
  
Then, smiling kindly, he drew her hair over her shoulder and leaned inward. "Good night, Clarice." His lips found her forehead, lingered, and were gone before she could acknowledge her quaky reaction.   
  
Starling stood motionless for long minutes. It wasn't until after he had retired to his bedchamber that she turned and opened her door, edged inward, and leaned against it with lasting thought.  
  
"Good night, Dr. Lecter."  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Baltimore - Part 1

Author's Note: Several things. Firstly, I regretfully have never been to Baltimore and know nothing of the racetracks. Similarly, I have no knowledge of firearms. Thus, the information in here is the product of very tedious and hopefully (but arguably) accurate research that prevented this chapter from being posted earlier. Please ignore any inconsistencies. Secondly, I owe the mother of all thanks to Helene for her 'approval' of the portrayed Mrs. Rosencranz, a lady I had not before had the pleasure of working with and for helping me doctor this up, providing ways I could humiliate Starling other than the scene given in the film.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended. The poem recited herein by Clarice Starling and Dr. Hannibal Lecter is the property of Lewis Carroll. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  


~~~ 

  
  
Chapter Eight   
  
**Part One **  
  
Two days passed.  
  
After Dr. Lecter bid her farewell following their supper, Starling spent a rocky, sleepless night tossing back and forth, tired but similarly vigilant. Her body was fickle, ached of fatigue but refused rest when offered. She forced herself to remain in bed long after witnessing sunrise, despite the jog she craved, battling with thoughts beyond comprehension, and did not emerge until the clocks chimed noon.   
  
In the end, these self-aimed battles were fruitless. He had done it. There was no use in refuting it any longer. Though Starling always bore an open mind, it was a unique occurrence for one whom had earned a black mark to afterward eradicate it from existence. As much as she desired to cling to her former distaste, there was appallingly none to speak of. Daresay, her mind had confessed to liking the doctor, perhaps too much to with what she was familiar, or comfortable.  
  
He was unlike any before him. Those rude to her in the past, or those who had caused her any amount of grief, never left the scratch of permanent classification. Paul Krendler was the best example. If he was nice—or better yet—less vulgar than usual, she accused him, justly, of being up to something. Not once was she proven wrong.  
  
However, Dr. Lecter's pristine kindness was sincere, and her merit for disliking him in the first place had directed more toward his intelligent teasing rather than crude jokes. Thus, it was initially a different flavor of aversion to begin with. Never before had she known anyone to hate for quick wit and intellect, and her verbal tosses with the doctor were always amusing, if not refreshing.  
  
She was seeing this now.  
  
Even though his teasing hadn't surrendered, the former offense she took to side comments was now and possibly forever absent. It was an acquired taste, and she liked it.  
  
Consequently, though she wished desperately to, Starling could live under these false pretensions no longer. That wasn't to say she was going to publicly declare that she no longer hated him, or even admit it aloud, but there wasn't much use in continuing to beat herself up over it.  
  
Unsurprisingly, when she did emerge that day, Dr. Lecter regarded her with detached interest. The mystical spark that had before tantalized her was gone now, replaced with familiar cooperative austerity. He greeted her kindly, asked if she wanted any tea or coffee and invited her to lunch in town with himself and Barney, where they would immediately thereafter initiate the hunt for the perfect dress to accommodate her upcoming premier.  
  
What they picked was simple but elegant. A deep burgundy dress, sleeveless but not offensively low-cut, the hemline just above her knee. With it came a jacket that comfortably hugged her sides when buttoned, matching shoes, and a few pieces of modest jewelry that Dr. Lecter insisted she needed.   
  
No chances were being taken. A specialist was hired to style her hair and do her make-up. Cries of protest abandoned her when Starling realized the insinuation of her inability to do it herself coincided with her supreme desire to _not _to.   
  
The morning of the outing, the first full-blown wave of anxiety struck. It was not provoked nor foreseen; she opened her eyes to the room in which she had spent the last few months of her life with a cold pit of dread spooling her insides. Starling gasped loudly as though pained and shot up, hair falling loosely in her face.   
  
Three preparatory days were behind them. It was today.  
  
Though her trepidation never gave her complete leave, it didn't take long for her to calm herself. Starling never let herself wear an emotion. There was nothing she could do now, anyway. The offer was accepted and regardless, it wouldn't—it _couldn't _—go over that badly.   
  
Dr. Lecter encouraged her to eat as much as she liked for breakfast, for it looked more favorably at such social gatherings with the less she ordered. Though Starling had a modest and appetite didn't think there was much to worry about, she scarfed as much as she could, not to the point of an achy stomach, but enough to survive the day with nothing further.  
  
Absently, she wondered how her dining habits would suffer a reprieve when she left Dr. Lecter's supervision. As a student with absolutely not an hour to spare to experiment in the kitchen, she and Mapp had practically lived on fast food. Starling shuddered at the thought, not caring now even for its intrusive smell.   
  
How this all would affect her life when she returned! She had not the money for take-out, nor the time and talent to fend for herself. Turkey sandwiches became tedious after so many consecutive nights. The impending reunion with her friend was something she anticipated greatly but similarly wanted to put off as long as possible.   
  
Starling envisioned Mapp's expression upon their next meeting. Her friend would behold a person she didn't know with such perfected posture, a nonexistent accent, and now impeccable table manners.   
  
The much-debated case file was again in her possession. After their trip to town, Dr. Lecter had returned it to her with the advice that she look over it and come to her own enlightened conclusions. It was around that time that she noticed a particularly catching drawing of Florence hanging in his study. She swore it hadn't been there before, which, of course, he denied heartily. After a pointless—though always entertaining—argument, she conceded that her eyes were likely deceiving her and asked what exactly the rendering captured.  
  
"The Duomo," he had said absently, "as seen from the Belvedere."  
  
Starling looked to the case file now, scribbled with her handwriting, worn and tattered. It had spent the night under her pillow, a ritual she had practiced in high school on the eve of a test that she hadn't studied for. Such was never successful, but she reckoned she had tried a variety of methods, and one more couldn't hurt.  
  
She had to separate herself from school today. Today, she was not Officer Clarice Starling; she was _Miss _Starling, escorted to a luncheon by Dr. Hannibal Lecter.   
  
There was only one thing she was certain of: if she could get through today unscathed, there wasn't anything she couldn't do.   
  
  


* * * 

  
  
  
Baltimore.  
  
Though she had visited on more than one occasion, Starling observed the city with reborn eyes, beholding the sights and scents through refined senses and tastes. Things she would have initially ignored sprung at her now, a change by which she was both fascinated and distressed.   
  
Change, in itself, had a tendency to be disconcerting.  
  
Starling wondered absently how Jack Crawford would react at seeing her dressed as she was, looking as she did, at the side of a debonair gentleman that had, in the time she knew him, never looked better.  
  
Dr. Lecter seemed oblivious and unaffected to her inward musings, but she suspected he was occupied in a similar self-engaging debates. Of course, he was also distracted by the drive, but Starling was unaccustomed to the doctor being anything but finely tuned to her every whim and notion, despite given conditions.   
  
Those she had grown the closest to in the past few months, excluding Mrs. Pearce who had gratefully taken the day off, occupied the Bentley as it rolled to a stop. Though Barney had first protested his involvement with the day's festivities, he was eventually convinced that, in order to evaluate her performance as the other partaker of the bet, it was essential that he be present.  
  
The restaurant was the first stop she was aware of, though Starling was on alert that Mrs. Rosencranz might inquire for an extended visit, which Dr. Lecter, naturally, could hardly decline. He insisted that they stay as long as possible to ensure she obtained all the practice she could on remaining in her recently developed character.  
  
With the car parked outside of Boccaccio, an Italian dining establishment, she drew in a deep breath, held and released, her heart racing. The doctor seemed perfectly agreeable to allow her a few minutes to collect herself. He spoke soothingly to her, and while his voice was not urgent or on the whole reassuring, it was all she needed.  
  
"Are you ready, Clarice?"  
  
Pause. "I will be."  
  
"I'll be watching," Barney said encouragingly from behind, giving her an astute pat on the shoulder. "We both will. You'll do fine."   
  
"Thanks." Starling smiled at his kindness though it did little to set her nerves at ease. The promise that this would, in the long run, benefit her studies and lessons charged her minimally, but failed to douse the desire to beg Dr. Lecter to turn the car around.   
  
_The thing is not to think about it…_  
  
Never mind that every lesson, every annoyance, every intrigue, every whim relied on how she behaved through the course of these next few hours. Never mind that the doctor and his patience rode on the imminent performance, that they might have to revert all the way to square one if she did something to lose herself.  
  
Time to take her mind away. Definitely.   
  
"'The time has come,'" she recited to herself, heaving out a deep breath. "'the Walrus said, 'To talk of many things.'"  
  
"'Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—of cabbages—and kings," Dr. Lecter returned with a grin. "Well, Clarice, whatever does it for you."  
  
"Oh shut up." Starling had to resist the temptation to playfully strike his shoulder. There was something about this searing familiarity that frightened her still. Though she knew perfectly well that denying her confusing reaction to the doctor was a fruitless activity, to convey harmless flirtation into tangibility unnerved her beyond merit. She exhaled deeply and attempted to wan troubling thoughts away by focusing elsewhere. "Did you, per chance, choose this restaurant?"  
  
"No, but I suspect Rachel selected it with me in mind. I don't recall many of her socialites being too overly keen on Italian."  
  
Starling frowned and nearly flustered, but clamped her response before he glanced in her direction. "She would go to this trouble for you, even now?"  
  
"Mutual respect." Dr. Lecter nodded.   
  
Mind and mouth engaged in civil war. "I should have known it'd be Italian," she snickered too quickly, protecting herself from whatever implications were to be answered from her tacit inquiry. Dead stirrings of jealousy begun weaving within her once more. "What is so special about Italy?"  
  
There was no immediate answer. Instead, the doctor smiled slowly, as though considering. "Perhaps someday, Clarice," he decided a beat later. "I will show you."  
  
The suggestion was harmless, but it caught her breath still. Her warring thoughts conceded, crashing in massive jubilation, searing into a thousand pieces. Then he smiled one of his infuriatingly wonderful smiles and moved to open the door, eyes dancing as though they knew her secret. "'And why the sea is boiling hot—And whether pigs have wings.' Wait here, Clarice. I'll be right back."  
  
Then he was gone, undoubtedly to inform his former social companion of the unique situation, as he promised he would prior to arriving. Barney said something but she didn't catch it. Instead, Starling sat back, waiting as her racing pulse began to subside, leveling her breathing and once more seizing control of herself.  
  
How she hated that he could do that to her—with a mere nursery rhyme, of all things!  
  
Why?  
  
What a redundant question that was. She would be long out of his company before any form of reasoning could begin to present itself.  
  
"'But answer came there none—And this was scarcely odd, because," she muttered, knowing Barney could not hear. "'They'd eaten every one.'"  
  
She had never liked the _Walrus and the Carpenter _despite its truth in societal depiction, and finally began to interpret personal reasoning.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
As always, Mrs. Rachel Rosencranz of the textile Rosencranzes was splendidly dressed. She would not have stood, nor appeared in public, in any garments that ranked below extraordinary. Every color, blush, piece of jewelry, and so forth was selected to accentuate her already flawless features and conceal blemishes of age that no one should ever see. Her clothing was lovely but not too pretentious—expected for the outing and location. She had always been a little older than he, but never looked it. Still, despite it all, she managed to avoid the frontage of haughtiness owned and exhibited by many women of her coveted station, as well as others in her close circle.   
  
Despite their differences and parting, Dr. Lecter had always found her agreeable in every way, even if they were no more now than good friends. Today, naturally, was no exception.   
  
Over the years, they had met at several social get-togethers as such and were always happy to see one another. He suspected on a level that Mrs. Rosencranz was dissatisfied with her marriage, even if she had the decency never to discuss the issue, and he had the similar decorum not to mention it. Though they lived some ways apart now, his friends and ties in Baltimore occasionally took it upon themselves to give him an update of the old girl, which he was always glad to receive.   
  
Mrs. Rosencranz never let such domestic discontent perturb her communal outings. She was of the old society where what happened at home remained behind closed doors. There was something to be said for such demands on privacy, and not allowing personal affairs to interfere or ruin the disposition of others.  
  
She was directing her party to the designated table when her eyes wandered up and met his. They shared a smile before she waved him over.  
  
"My dear Dr. Lecter!" she exclaimed pleasantly. "I wasn't sure if you were going to make it. Did you not bring anyone?"  
  
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Rosencranz. A delight to see you again."  
  
"Rachel, please."  
  
He nodded courteously. "Rachel. Yes, I did bring someone. Two guests, actually, if you have no objection. One is an old friend of mine that I might have mentioned on a prior acquaintance. Barney Jackson, who is studying to obtain an LPN license." Being one of impeccable memory, he knew he had not so much as uttered the man's name in her presence, but thought to test her resolve anyway. He was pleased when she frowned and nodded that she indeed did not recall him. "The other is a young woman—"  
  
At once, Mrs. Rosencranz's features brightened, as though no news could have pleased her further, which he knew perfectly well not to be the case. "Hannibal!" she cried happily, eyes dancing with never-ending joy to be updated on any friend's romantic engagements.  
  
"No, no. Not a love affair," he chuckled richly, unimpeded by the inward denial the sprung immediately to life and pushed it aside as though it were nothing more than a reminder to check the dates on the wine that evening. "She is an FBI trainee who has been staying with me for the past several months for a wonderfully complex experiment which you, I have no doubt, would enjoy immensely given another time and place. However, the project is drawing closer to an end, I'm afraid, and the real test of her teachings will present itself at some horridly crowded and aristocratic social event in upcoming weeks. I hope you don't mind that I intend to try her out on you first."  
  
The face of his old friend dulled a bit, and she blinked. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I was thinking something gaudily, one of those dire social functions that I usually cannot tolerate." Dr. Lecter paused. "I have even considered taking her overseas to attend an Embassy ball, as was originally promised. It's a bet, you see. A bet that I cannot make her a lady with the most remarkable insight within the duration of six months."  
  
"And how has your progress been?"  
  
"Very well, thank you. I believe you will be most surprised with Clarice." He smiled fondly. "If you would, I ask you to help her along. She is really quite nervous. I don't believe I have ever seen her so unwound."  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz's eyes darkened dangerously, but with concern instead of threat. Hurriedly, she indicated to her sitting party. "Hannibal, I cannot have a spectacle here. You know how these people react to—"  
  
"My dear, have faith in me." There was a pause for emphasis. "Clarice is not a barbarian, I assure you. Her manners were commendable prior to coming to me." Not that he ever let her know that, of course. Oh no, that was a part of the fun. Dr. Lecter fought off another grin. "We have worked strenuously this week especially on preparing for this afternoon's festivities. I believe you will like her very much."  
  
Another pause, this time for consideration, but he knew she would agree and was not concerned. It was inevitable; eyes flickering enough with interest to reel anyone in. "I swear, Hannibal Lecter," she said with a breath of reluctant acceptance a beat later. "Anyone else, and I would have insisted you turn around this very minute and leave."  
  
He chuckled. "Yes, I know. I suppose it is to my advantage that I have neglected to wrong you in the past."  
  
"Most assuredly," Mrs. Rosencranz agreed with a kind, almost forlorn smile. "Bring her in, Doctor."  
  
She turned to join her waiting friends, laughing nervously to herself. Yet she was unable to make it more than a few steps before Dr. Lecter grasped her arm and spooled her back to him. Her gasp was of shock and some odd suspense, which did little to surprise him. After such a prolonged acquaintance, it was essential to expect the unexpected.  
  
The quickening of her pulse was easy to register; he had known her for many years and was especially acquainted with her mannerisms in reaction to certain displays of force. These responses from her did not surprise or flatter him—it was beyond that. Rather, they satisfied in an inner region of his subconscious. The bird was beginning to react in the same nature.  
  
Mmm…  
  
"Thank you, Rachel," he said courteously, releasing her as he took a step for the door. "This means a great deal to me."  
  
There was a brief break as she fought to collect her breath, subtle but not unseen. "My pleasure, Dr. Lecter. After all…what are friends for?"   
  
Such a phrase was rarely uttered any more these days with a wholly devout sense of trust. The doctor would not place such faith idly, and he knew Mrs. Rosencranz recognized this. It was beneficial to keep friends with old acquaintances; you never knew when it would come in handy.  
  
When Starling entered at Barney's side, Dr. Lecter was almost disappointed when all the room failed to still in awe, but knew not to expect much appreciation from others. No one but his visiting friend and himself could fully understand the trouble the young protégé had gone through over the past few months. She was a vision, radiating warmth, and portraying an admirable job of masking apprehensions. To say she looked lovelier than ever was true though misleading. While, granted, she was fixed to appear more beautiful than anyone had seen her; he had never had an objection to her appearance. There was little she could do to either enhance or degrade her splendor. Earlier, he had forced himself to avoid looking at her for the purpose of maintaining his otherwise infallible stamina.  
  
Notwithstanding, Starling looked neither superior nor inferior when compared to the other ladies present. Her dress was lovely but unremarkable, flattering her figure in a fashion that could not help but attract an approving eye. He attempted to regard her without elevated favor, his modest opinion keeping well concealed. However, his sanction shuddered as he observed her masterfully covered uncertainty, coated with hesitant confidence in an old romantics approach.   
  
Such was one of the reasons she was so delightful. Despite the preparation, however much he knew that she was ready for this, she was still wracked with vulnerability and nervousness. Her improvement was highly admirable, but Starling never let progress go to her head. If work was accomplished, that simply meant there was another task to tackle.   
  
Over the past few months, Dr. Lecter found himself becoming increasingly fond of her company. Though affection had always existed, this was different than before. A dangerous attachment was forming. His reaction to her various whims had been unsettling from the beginning—new in some oddly amusing approach. No longer amusing, though there wasn't a minute that passed that he wasn't humored by her antics, her arguments and justifications, the way she flustered when he struck a particularly sensitive nerve. Her own response to him, he knew, had begun to frighten her. Rightfully so. It was painfully clear that she didn't want to like him. Gradually, Starling was conquering her prejudice.  
  
She was his Elizabeth Bennet.   
  
Dr. Lecter offered his arm, which she took gratefully, her fingers indolently caressing his shirt against his skin. The approach to the table was executed flawlessly, her poise and posture suffering no blunder. She took her seat as rehearsed—only when he pulled it out for her and gracefully placed her napkin in her lap.  
  
Immediate interest blossomed to see the doctor, confirmed bachelor as of the current, with a young woman whom appeared educated and well mannered. Nothing was said, of course. Such rude returns had no place in these elite circle, but notice and curiosity were positively sprawled on eager eyes that scrutinized the newcomer. Dr. Lecter was very familiar with this ritual. A foreign face to hunt for flaws. A reason to extradite viciousness and start ghastly rumors that would assuredly ruin her rise in society. Fresh blood.   
  
The hunt proved ineffective. There was nothing to attack on the surface. The girl was unapproachable.   
  
Excellent.  
  
"Ms. Starling," Mrs. Rosencranz said a minute later. "So pleased to meet you at last."  
  
The bird smiled thankfully and nodded, all politeness. "How kind of you to let me come."  
  
Dr. Lecter grinned wickedly. That particular phrase was etched tightly in his mind. The chimes of the xylophone they had come so accustomed to echoed within his cavity. No hint of accent.  
  
Introductions were traded, every face shining behind a brilliantly false light of radiance. Only one set of unfamiliar eyes regarded her with more attentive interest than threat. Typically male. The doctor felt himself darken, but his expression did not change. Instead, he engaged in conversation with one of the other guests, observant but casual.  
  
It would not do himself good to appear completely enchanted by her perfected charm.  
  
"This is my nephew," Mrs. Rosencranz introduced, indicating the disagreeable young man. "Mr. Noble Pilcher."  
  
Immediately, the boy jumped up to catch her hand. He was wide-eyed and eager, plainly naïve though well mannered. Amidst his scrutiny, Dr. Lecter kept a close eye on Pilcher and was not satisfied with the conclusions; the man simply couldn't stop ogling. It was a flattering annoyance. While he reveled in the knowledge that another was as taken with her as he was, it was a double edged sword in which he could not help reacting to with a menacing inner twinge.  
  
Starling kept a wonderfully oblivious façade, though Dr. Lecter knew she must sense it as well. Over the past few weeks, he had heard several relenting tales of the men in her life, those with both active and repulsively forward roles. No matter where she went or whom she addressed, there were eyes that freely roamed her body with undisguised lust and vigorously attempted to get into her slacks. Her, after all this time, radar was naturally impeccable, though out of practice. She hadn't dealt with such objectionable circumstances for several months.   
  
That she knew of.  
  
"How do you do?" she repeated kindly, flashing an awarding smile to gratify Mrs. Rosencranz, whom obviously felt the introduction was necessary. Dr. Lecter found this curious but not too altogether unsurprising. It was her nature on a level, and the expected reaction to a bad marriage. She likely regarded Starling as a danger, even now, years after their parting, whether or not she was aware of it.


	9. Baltimore - Part 2

**Part Two **  
  
The gentleman at the table were numbered and instinctively spaced from what promised to be an extensive gossiping session. Dr. Lecter remained stationary, pleasant but not overbearing. His purpose and interest was held solely by Starling's performance. Dull conversation was not superior to no conversation, and while he was polite to those who addressed him, his attempts to chat were a numbered waste of time.  
  
Discussion wandered and varied. The ladies spoke of a play they saw when last together, the men of various hunting ventures. Neither party paid Starling much attention, excluding Pilcher, of course. A question or two was aimed in her direction, but nothing that required a lengthy explanation. The atmosphere was reasonable, not friendly.  
  
Dr. Lecter suspected these conditions were agreeable to Starling, whom appeared to have little interest in partaking, even if it was her designated role. There were certain things of aristocratic life that could not be taught—rather beaten into one's system from early childhood. Understandably, she lacked such instincts. This was not her arena; though she was successfully claiming it as her own with what she had learned over the months.  
  
Not much was expressed until Mrs. Claypool's husband mentioned the advantages of the Ruger Model 77 over the Browning A-Bolt. At that, Starling's brows perked and she leaned forward, placing her water glass aside as she cleared her throat.  
  
"I don't believe so, sir," she said, voice coated with enough confidence to forebode the others that she was well educated in the matter and had been listening for some time, which they were not accustomed to. Ladies generally had no interest in firearms. "In my experience, it has been the adjustable trigger ensures accuracy. Never missed a shot." Starling trailed off thoughtfully. "Though, the Remington is probably the best model. I haven't had the fortune of using one for quite some time. Have you, sir, ever fired a Remington?"  
  
The movement at the table was deathly still as all eyes yielded to Mr. Claypool. His gaze was wide with surprise but also provided flecks on superiority. Dr. Lecter did not know whether to be disappointed in his protégé's stray from the instructed or amused at her approach. Either way, he made no attempt to intervene. The man's reaction was destined to be classic.  
  
For now, he settled with amused.  
  
"We were discussing the advantage of a three-position safety, Ms. Starling," Mr. Claypool said a minute later, having collected himself. "Your Browning is a remarkable rifle, but it doesn't offer that convenience. And while the Remington is the more popular, that doesn't make it any more efficient."  
  
"I believe it is popular for a reason. People don't fire rifles because they are pretty, Mr. Claypool," Starling retorted with a smile that Dr. Lecter recognized instantly. It was his own, adapted and perfected, and utterly irresistible. "And perhaps, if you're so concerned with the safety features, you shouldn't be playing with guns. It will do what you tell it to, and tends to respond to carelessness."  
  
Dead, shocked silence. The man cleared his throat and shook away torn pride. "Yes, well, the Ruger has a Mauser-type extractor."  
  
"Doesn't make it a Mauser." Starling's brows arched in silent admiration, and even before she spoke, the doctor heard the Virginia hills drawn to her voice. Knowing it was inevitable; all he could do was close his eyes tightly as it escaped, beyond her notice or ability of prevention. "Now _that's _a hell of a gun."  
  
Barney snickered, Noble Pilcher dissolved in laughter, several women gasped, and Mrs. Rosencranz shot Dr. Lecter a look of pure mortification. Not reacting to any of this, though he could clearly see that she had caught her mistake, Starling merely flashed her stolen smirk and indulged in another drink of water. Excellent. Slip-ups were always better concealed without accentuation.  
  
Luckily, before the imminent nasty reprieve, their food arrived. By the time Mr. Collins had issued the toast and everyone began eating, the topic was dead.  
  
Dr. Lecter exhaled, exchanged glances with Barney, and smiled to himself.  
  
Lunch was pleasant but dull, the heat of the conversation alive in the topic before it. There evidently were post-meal plans to visit Plimco, the horseracing course, which did little to spark the doctor's interest. He suspected Starling would want to be out of such company as soon as possible, and despite his earlier statement, he found himself eager to return. However, she surprised him, her widened eyes betraying her zeal, but she looked to him before speaking a word.  
  
Dr. Lecter mused, quickly visiting a chamber of his memory palace. Of the many things he had wheedled out of her over the past few months, he knew that her father had died when she was ten and she was sent to live with her mother's cousin on a sheep and horse ranch. The more he learned of her childhood, the more enchanted he became. It was primitive but fascinating.   
  
There _was _the issue of what became of that ranch, and he was determined to hold its delightful secret before her stay was complete.  
  
A glance to Barney clinched the deal. As much as Dr. Lecter detested the races, it would be rude not to partake when visibly everyone was in its favor.  
  
Mr. Claypool grumbled dejectedly as the party vacated the table.  
  
"We'll meet you over there," the doctor told Mrs. Rosencranz, keeping a watchful eye on Starling to be sure she placed her napkin to the right of her plate as they had rehearsed. "My apologies for—"  
  
"Don't worry with it," she dismissed, reaching into her purse for a cigarette. Her composure was admirable but Dr. Lecter could tell her nerves were getting to her. This woman never smoked unless under pressure. "She should do fine at the races. And even so…her remarks were entertaining, to say the least."  
  
"I do hope this won't put you at an out with your esteemed friends," he said courteously.  
  
"Don't worry. I'll just blame it on you."   
  
"I would expect no less."  
  
The atmosphere within the Bentley was quite different. Starling's morale had alleviated given her recent slip, and he was glad. Whatever the circumstances, and despite all sense of logic, Dr. Lecter much preferred her when she was in high spirits. Though her temper flusters were quite delicious, there was such gratification in seeing her happy.  
  
Something told him that she had spent most of her life unhappy. If there was anything to take from her lessons, it was most definitely to get more fun out of life.  
  
However, Dr. Lecter was not beyond enjoying himself. He wanted her to see the foulest disposition as he entered the car, which she registered with arched brows but made no move to acknowledge.   
  
Ah, and she was learning not to wear the emotions of others like her own. Bravo.  
  
Barney, on the other hand, looked most panicked to see the doctor's frown. He had to wink into the rearview mirror subtly to reassure his friend that all was well.  
  
"You were doing well," Dr. Lecter said finally as they pulled out of Boccaccio. "Though I must inquire what that firearm discussion was about. Rachel's friends were quite appalled that any lady would carry such unthinkable—"  
  
"Doctor, all things considered, I think I'm in a pretty good mood given how royally I fucked up back there." Starling smiled satisfactorily to herself. "I just love proving others wrong. Especially people who think they know everything and walk around the earth as though they own it. Opera and music might be your forte, but when it comes to guns…step aside!" She scoffed. "Ruger, indeed."  
  
"Ruger's a pretty good gun," Barney said thoughtfully.  
  
Dr. Lecter grinned.  
  
"Pretty good," she agreed reluctantly. "Yeah, but he didn't know what he was talking about. I've fired more guns than—"  
  
"Clarice, however wonderfully educated you find yourself on gentleman's discussion," the doctor said with intent. "I believe you will be more rewarded to remain in the position placed for you by society."  
  
"Fuck society."  
  
At that, his patience began to teeter and darken. "Clarice," he said warningly.   
  
"Oh fine," she conceded with a growl. "And just when I thought I could get away without reciting Lewis Carroll. I was actually beginning to enjoy myself, you know? What a way to ruin a good time."  
  
Dr. Lecter's frustration paled and he could not help a small grin. "'The sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might.'"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Rich laughter filled the air. He glanced briefly to Barney, who was enthralled with the passing scenery. "My dear, I'm sure you can find some source of amusement at Plimco. Consider it reimbursement for crashing your droll party of one, and know that attending a horserace is positively my last priority."  
  
"'And this was odd because it was the middle of the night.'"  
  
"Mr. Carroll would be honored to act as a source of personal motivation."  
  
"I'm sure he cares."  
  
"We will have to return to Baltimore some evening to sample variety at the Brass Elephant," Dr. Lecter mused considerately, as though they had been discussing it all along. "I find it is superior to Boccaccio."  
  
She snickered and rolled her eyes, leaning her arm against the rest and planting her chin into a waiting palm. "By all means."  
  
"Sarcasm duly noted, Officer Starling."  
  
"Good. Hate to get it passed you."  
  
"I believe that you are deliberately provoking me." Dr. Lecter smiled at the thought, but concealed it before either could see. Mmm…yes, that would be delightful.   
  
However, now was not the time to consider such things.  
  
Time had undeniably eased her comfort, whereas before Starling spoke her mind with caution, she now exhibited no conceit before letting her opinion be known. Complaints, if any, were issued with thought. As verified when they ventured to select her eveningwear, her taste had improved drastically. He liked her like this, though was vigilant to obscure such admiration.   
  
"Why would I deliberately provoke you, Doctor?" she snickered. If she was suffering the same struggles as he, she hid her conflict proficiently. That was another frustrating pleasure about her. Others in her position, if interested, made their infatuation known in the most unflattering of instances. Starling was quite the opposite. He had no way of knowing what she was thinking most of the time, and based his assumptions on those wonderfully subtle hints she dropped at her leisure, perfectly and happily ignorant to his inward torment. "That hardly seems—"  
  
"Don't play that game with me, Clarice. I taught it to you."  
  
"I thought you wanted me to remain in character as long as possible."  
  
"Snobbery will give you an ill-flavor. Do not allow yourself to become overly influenced by the taste of old blood." Dr. Lecter grinned. "I much prefer you the way you are."  
  
"Then—" she seemed confused, at last losing her voice. "What exactly is the—"  
  
"Merely a sample of overrated posh lifestyle. I'm afraid you will have to endure it once more before our time together comes to an end," he replied simply. "Oh no, Clarice, the purpose of this outing was fundamental—I doubt very much that your dear Jack Crawford would approve of such behavior upon your return, or know how to react at all."  
  
Talk of her return seemed perilous compared to the inevitable knowledge that it would one day occur. Speaking it made it real, personal. Now it seemed forever away, but Dr. Lecter was not so careless to not take it into consideration. The date was very real, there, looming, and would arrive sooner than anyone was prepared for.  
  
"Mmm…" she murmured in response, neither disagreeing nor agreeing. The next surprised him. It seemed unprovoked, but still failed to throw him off guard. "Why did things end between you and Mrs. Rosencranz?"  
  
Was that jealousy he detected?   
  
The comment stimulated Barney's interest, inciting him to astute alertness and he fell completely still, as though his movement would interrupt any form of the approaching answer.  
  
"Well," Dr. Lecter began. "A conflict of interest, I suppose. We have a very dissimilar precedence in life. Rachel and I came to the conclusion that we were more appropriately suited as friends rather than social companions. She met someone from her own league, more settled than I."  
  
"She still likes you, Doc," Barney observed. "I could tell."  
  
"If she does, that is of no concern to me."  
  
"Flattering, though? Wouldn't you think? After all this—"  
  
The subject was becoming tedious. "It does not occur to me to care in one way or another, Barney. I hope Rachel is very satisfied and content in her own domesticity. By in large, she made the preferable choice in husband."   
  
"Her nephew was nice."  
  
"Yes," Starling agreed, to rapidly for comfort. "Yes, Mr. Pilcher was very nice."  
  
"Ah," Dr. Lecter said shortly. "We have arrived."  
  
Though he was not a usual attendant, the doctor was always sure to have the best of everything. It was essential to park valet. Plimco was a nice establishment and his participation was based solely on the convenience of outings such as this.  
  
Once parked, his protégée smirked as she wiggled out of her seatbelt. "I do hope this won't be too excruciating for you, Doctor."  
  
"I appreciate your sentiments, Clarice, and please understand when I say that I do not believe you in the slightest." He smiled at her nicely, though he could feel malicious—but good-humored—intent dancing behind his eyes. The smile she reciprocated informed him of his accuracy, and he had to bite back a chuckle. "If luck is on my side, which it is often not, we will not be staying here long."  
  
Barney was the last to manage out of the car, and he heaved a deep breath as the door slammed. "I'm gonna place a bet, I think. I haven't been to the races since I was a kid."  
  
"If you wish to squander your money, be my guest."  
  
Starling rolled her eyes. "Don't spoil everyone's fun, for Christ's sake."  
  
"Language, Clarice. Rachel will not be pleased with another gaffe."  
  
Tickets were waiting for them, thoughtfully placed on hold by the hostess. Once the seats were found, they were again in the company Mrs. Rosencranz's dinner companions, excluding Mr. Claypool whom evidently retired home with a ghastly headache. As expected, Noble Pilcher was especially attentive and very pleased to again see Starling, and waved to her as though they were returning from a cross-Atlantic cruise.   
  
Mrs. Rosencranz wearily eyed the doctor and sighed, though he could tell she was pleased.  
  
"I'm so sorry you missed the first race," Pilcher said eagerly once they were seated. "It was very exciting. Mr. Collins won three hundred dollars! I've placed a bet on Dover, myself. Would you care to—"  
  
Enthusiastic young whelps were highly offensive to the rest of conventional society. Masterfully, Dr. Lecter intervened and claimed Starling's arm in a fashion that clearly stated 'You're Trespassing on Private Property' in any language. "When does the next race begin?" he asked cordially, flashing a deceivingly controlled temperate smile.   
  
"In a few—"  
  
"Splendid! We best get seated, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
As expected, the races were exciting to those actively involved. To Dr. Lecter, who appreciated older fashion, the sport had lost much of its charm to commercialism, and was no longer a desirable way to spend one's afternoon. However, Starling looked more animated than he had seen her in weeks. Lively and as though she were on her home turf. It was the first genuine taste she had had of the old life since the project began.   
  
Barney emerged a richer man, beaming like a child who won a pie contest. Much to the doctor's cloaked enjoyment, Pilcher lost his bets but similarly wasted no time in turning to Starling for false consolation. Granted, the party didn't stay long. After an hour or so, the women began to complain of the heat and the men wanted to return to peruse their televisions for whatever Neanderthal sport was in season.  
  
The day had worn itself effectively.   
  
Pilcher took place beside Starling on the way out, Mrs. Rosencranz and Dr. Lecter behind them. He watched the two like a hawk; observant and only half-attentive to conversation he was allegedly involved in. Such means were foreign but similarly inexorable. There was something about his student that allowed no chances.   
  
A chance to what, he was not sure.   
  
Thus, his compromising position allowed him a very nice view; both of obvious conditions and for the waiting pile of horse compost that was targeted for Starling's shoe. Even if it had been his inclination to alert her of her impending circumstance, any attempt was in vain. By the time he could have spoken up, it was done; her shoe squarely situated in a clump of manure.  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz gasped loudly.   
  
Ahead, Starling stopped dead, hand shooting out to clutch Pilcher's arm tightly. Though he could not see her, the doctor was sure her eyes closed in expected horror and shame. To think, a girl whom had spent so much time around horses could not foresee a perfectly expectable condition given their location. He had to fight back a grin, despite conditions.  
  
"Oh shit," she muttered when she could speak.  
  
"Yes," Dr. Lecter agreed, immediately coming forward, though unsure if his reaction was prompted by her unfortunate situation or the discomfort that surged through his body to see her grasping the young annoyance with such force. Despite appearances, he could not deny the surge of pleasure to have a convenient excuse at separating them, and such could not be disclosed from his voice. "It would appear so. Come here, Clarice. Let's get you cleaned up."  
  
"Leave me alone," she retorted arguably, retracting her arm dynamically when he reached for it. "Thank you, Doctor, I'll take care of myself." Then, all politeness, she turned to Pilcher, to the other frozen members of their party, and nodded. "If you will excuse me." She turned and walked passed Barney hurriedly, who was turning interesting shades of purple.  
  
Dr. Lecter managed to catch his eye and motioned that he should excuse himself to relieve himself of the much needed laugh. Despite his distance, the bellow of a large man could be heard seemingly from miles, and carried nicely today for the opportune weather conditions.  
  
By this time, the others of the gathering were snickering to themselves, having overcome their offense and talked quietly to themselves.   
  
Mrs. Rosencranz met Dr. Lecter's gaze and excused herself to be of some assistance to Starling. She thought that her help might be better accepted, coming from an unprejudiced woman.  
  
Several minutes later, she was proven sickly incorrect.  
  
"All over my dress!" she gasped, storming back with lightning crashing behind her eyes. "Look at this! Cashmere!"   
  
"Calm yourself, Rachel," the doctor said, though unable to conceal his smile. "I will be happy to compensate the cost so that you may buy as many new dresses as you please. How is she?"  
  
"What do you mean, 'how is she'? Go see for yourself; she's beside herself, poor thing. But still—she lacks the conventional skill…the—" In mortified disgust, Mrs. Rosencranz's attention fell dejectedly to the rather noticeable muck stain on her dress. "I do believe, Hannibal, that you have much time ahead of you if you wish to prepare her for an Embassy ball."  
  
Dr. Lecter's brows arched at the challenge, his attention kept considerately but still mindful of Starling. Despite her pretenses, he sensed that she would want him to join her soon enough. "Do you not think she is ready for it?"  
  
"My dear Dr. Lecter, be sensible!" scoffed she. "Clarice is a very nice young woman, simple-minded, perhaps, but well-meaning. Still, that does not excuse the fact that she is maybe ready for a canal barge at best."  
  
At that, he darkened, unsure if his offense was directed at his coaching or the insinuation that anyone who could entice him the way she did could be defined as artless. Never mind he had accused her of the very same to her face. To hear the same claim from someone else's mouth was very displeasing. However, he did not believe this was the genuine disposition of Mrs. Rosencranz's esteemed opinion; the woman was slighted and suffering the aggravation to see the ruin of a most cherished garment. "Well," he said a tempered minute later. "I suppose her language could stand a little refining, however—"  
  
"Oh really, Hannibal! If you cannot see how impossible this whole project is, then you must be absolutely crazy about her." The blatancy of her words surprised him, something not easily accomplished. Before he could rebuke, she began again. "I advise you to give it up now and not put yourself and this poor girl through any more."  
  
"Give it up?" he replied with indignation. "It is the most fascinating venture I have ever undertaken. Barney and I are consumed with it from morning 'til night. It fills our whole lives. Teaching Clarice, talking to Clarice, listening to Clarice, dressing Clarice—"  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz's eyes widened. "What? You're a pretty pair of babies playing with your live doll."  
  
"If it inconveniences you so, be assured we will not call in the future." Dr. Lecter's stare burnt her for a minute, and he noticed a very subtle and averse shiver shimmy down her spine, perhaps with proclivity of real fear for his intensity, and perhaps for the same reasons as suggested by Barney. Either or, he did not care to know. "Now, if you will excuse me, Mrs. Rosencranz, I believe your party is waiting for you. I must tend to my own."  
  
And he left it at that, turning to find Starling and help her in any manner he could.   
  
Regretfully, Pilcher was there, engaged in animated conversation as he helped her wipe away dung remnants until Dr. Lecter shooed him back to his respectable connections. "Your aunt may be inclined to leave without you," he murmured, "if you do not haste to join her."  
  
It was with much hesitation that the whelp left her side, and his eyes left an unwanted imprint that Dr. Lecter felt Starling reciprocated with perhaps too much enthusiasm.  
  
This outing was not as carefully planned as he originally hoped, though he was pleasantly surprised with her agreeable reaction to problematic events. An old sport like this struck him as both uncomfortable and amusing. Though the doctor was far from confronting himself beyond the signs of obvious attraction, competing with younger men for this woman's affection was decidedly unfamiliar.   
  
There was some area of comfort. Pilcher was drawn to the Starling that Dr. Lecter had created without knowing any side of her true character, while in seeing her like this, the doctor's own reaction was quite the opposite. Much to his surprise, today proved that he preferred her as the woman he had grown to know over the past few months. Classic elegance suited her well, of course. Very little did not.  
  
Now he took Pilcher's place beside her, near enough to lavatories to call upon the convenience of fresh water should it be needed. Once alone, Starling's façade fell and she lurched forward, head falling into waiting hands, not reacting to the attentions being bestowed. "Holy hell," she said shortly. All former flippant attitudes abandoned her to his satisfaction, the confidence she aired after their lunch, rendering her in the same state as when they arrived. Whatever the reason, he liked her like this. "What is wrong with me?"  
  
"Nothing at all, I assure you," Dr. Lecter replied, not looking at her. His focus was completely enveloped with the task at hand.   
  
"I'm unfit for society."  
  
"I promise that is hardly the case."  
  
"What else can be?—I knew how to behave at lunch but decided to talk about guns instead of whatever the other women were discussing." She sobbed into her hands. "My language is about as refined as an Arkansan at a barn dance, my common-sense as sharp as cu-tip, my manners as perfected as a family of orangutans…anything I'm leaving out? You're free to jump in."  
  
The doctor chuckled loudly, finally coaxed to glance up. When she did not react to his stillness, he reached and drew her arms to her sides again. An inward twinge jolted to see her swollen red eyes, the pain and self-aggravation sparkling behind so evidently. As before, he was overwhelmed with the instinct to comfort, but refused to allow himself such vulnerability. "Desist this unnecessary bellyaching, Clarice," he said in its place, knowing it was always better to speak the opposite when confronted with such matters as these. "I am not upset with your performance."  
  
"Oh!" she snarled sarcastically. "What a relief! That makes _everything _better. No wonder you're a doctor…you sure have the healer's touch."  
  
He arched his brows. "How did I deserve that?"  
  
"You assume that I'm worried about _your _reaction. This may surprise you, Dr. Lecter, but I do have thoughts and concerns that do not begin and end with you." Starling's eyes were cold now, pointedly attacking the first plausible victim for her distress. "Did it ever occur to you that I _wanted _to do well? That I _wanted _to prove to myself that I haven't been wasting these past few months?" She groaned angrily. "And now…what—"  
  
"Clarice."  
  
"What?"  
  
It was hopeless. Dr. Lecter regarded her for a minute, uncannily without words, before his prolific sense returned and released the most feared of all omens: the reassuring truth. "Your language might need a little fine-tuning, but it is hardly elementary. Your manners were impeccable, and your common sense is as sensible as superior to anyone you had the misfortune of meeting today." He took a minute to enjoy the dissipation of her discouragement, the shudder that ran through her in the fashion that was becoming wonderfully familiar. "I did not mean to imply my approval of such a performance was the only accomplishment you were to strive for. My intention was merely to suggest that while several peculiarities were noticeable, you should not berate yourself for a few minor slip-ups. You have done remarkably well, Clarice, more so than I can hope credit you. These insecurities are charming but unnecessary. Learn to trust my good word, for I will not lie to you. You did very well today, despite appearances or what you may think. There was absolutely nothing left wanting in your performance."  
  
He ended as abruptly as he began, and for long seconds, the air between them was substantial with such fantastically thick anticipation that follicles of breath were nearly visible. The hardness behind Starling's eyes faded without much provocation, and her chest heaved as though finishing a hefty jog. Her image was pure torment, stirring within him both pride and uncertainty. Trapped in a wealth of swirling emotions, her pupils seemed to contrast in pigment, struggling to hide herself and succeeding to his everlasting torment. However, masks were unveiled and tossed aside. And without realizing it, lest he pull away, Dr. Lecter found himself nearing to claim her mouth, and might have had Barney not approached.  
  
"Hey, Doc," he said in a manner that stated he was perfectly oblivious to the conditions he intruded. "Everything okay now? Mrs. Rosencranz and her friends have gone ahead. We better start back."  
  
Any advancement was immediately retracted, considered briefly before discarded. The moment broke asunder and disarrayed its merit. Starling noticed this, too, and cleared her throat, though her eyes were still heavy with confused burden and resentment. Dr. Lecter drew himself away and assumed his normal disposition. Without looking at her, he nodded and stood. "Yes, I believe we are ready." And before anyone could retort, he was gone. To collect the car and his thoughts. It promised to be a long drive home.  
  
Such situations required thinking.  
  
Today would not be forgotten.  
  
  


* * * 


	10. Musings and Confusions

Author's Note: We're finally to intermission! Hurrah!  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended. The lyrics recited herein by Clarice Starling are the property of Frank Loesser. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Chapter Nine   
  
For two days, Starling was left to nurse her thoughts and confusions, free of engagements as a reward for modestly conducting herself during unpleasant situations; she was still assured that preparations would soon begin for the main event. Dr. Lecter had not specified his intentions, though she knew simply from living together for the past few months not to expect anything less than grandiose and extravagant. There was talk of an expedition over seas, and while that seemed doubtful, she was coming to the realization never to put it passed him to surprise the household with such an announcement. At this point, she felt ready for anything.  
  
However, she was so deeply enveloped in sorting out her feelings from the Baltimore outing that her nerves forbade any forethought on the decisive test she would endure in coming days. Since their return and the proclamation that she was alleviated of any duties for the next forty-eight hours, Starling had spent the majority of her time in her room, closed off. She emerged only to obtain nourishment and make use of the lavatories. Anything that required more than a sentence or two from her hosts was avoided. There was too much to debate and question.  
  
Baltimore had left her completely and utterly confused and Dr. Lecter's behavior toward her was the greatest surprise. Not only was he warm and understanding, his reaction to Pilcher, even with the much-debated Mrs. Rosencranz drooling at the sight of him, suggested something as entirely impossible as jealousy. The doctor did not seem susceptible to such human candor. It gave her the sense that the tables were turned at last, and that the feelings she had tortured herself over for the past few weeks were finally being gratified in a perversely cruel manner.   
  
Not that Starling wanted to admit that merely knowing the former social companion increased her predisposed negative opinion of the woman, and that she hadn't escaped the day without dark feelings of the same nature. That was irrelevant. Baltimore surprised her, for it was the first concrete indication that she wasn't the only one unsettled or affected. In many ways, it served as a relief.  
  
It also scared her out of her wits. If he started reciprocating her undistinguished feelings, what was to become of them? Certainly, there could be no happily ever after at the end of this charade. Such did not happen to people of their nature. Such did not happen to _Starlings. _She was lucky to have made it this far.  
  
After everything…  
  
She could feel his breath fanning her face, the way she had lost herself again to the mystique of his words and the whirlpool of his eyes. However, though his intentions seemed perfectly evident, she wondered still if he actually would have kissed her, if he would allow himself to admit or uncover that portion of his inexplicable humanity.  
  
Her skin tingled still from the imprint of his lips those four nights ago. The air hung with their words, both spoken and unspoken.  
  
All very vexing.  
  
He made her fluster, pushed her into self-awareness, irritated her to no end, and still managed to…  
  
It was absurd, but also undeniable. From both ends that day, they had ignored those much closer to their age and station, despite apprehensions. Of course, that could only be an assumption. Starling thought it was perfectly obvious how she attempted to ignore Pilcher, notwithstanding however closer to her own stature he was. Dr. Lecter seemed detached, but similarly uninterested in his former lady's pretentious jabbering and affections.  
  
That wasn't fair. Starling honestly couldn't vouch if she would think any better of Mrs. Rosencranz if it wasn't for her past with the doctor, but she had the uncomfortable notion that their relationship had much to do with the manifest dislike.  
  
Dear Pilcher. Even still, she had to regard him with a fond smile. The kid was nice, certainly, but too much like an overbearing child in desperate need of attention. Though she appreciated the openness of admiration without the relation of Paul Krendler, his compliments were modest but annoyingly expansive. Either way, the most she took from that introduction was Dr. Lecter's response. She had a sinking feeling that Pilcher's praises would not be so animated if he knew her outside that social circle.   
  
That, and she had no desire to associate with a man slightly older who managed to make her feel twice her age.  
  
The walls of her room were becoming confined. Starling yearned to break free and indulge in a jog, but the thought of seeing him—especially after that near-display—did not weigh well with her. Enduring the uncomfortable atmosphere in the car on the way home, with Barney chatting obliviously in the back while they tried hard not to look each other had been difficult enough.  
  
But then, silence could drive a person insane.  
  
In desperation for human contact, Starling fished her almost-forgotten cell out of her purse, hesitated in thought before recalling the number to Ardelia Mapp's extension. She was discouraged that her memory had dulled over time and disuse from something that had once been second nature. After a few rings, she remembered it was a Tuesday, nearly noon, and her friend would not be home. Another wrestle with her memory produced the cell number, and she hurriedly dialed that instead.  
  
When the line finally picked up, her salutation was drown by loud commotion in the form of clinking plates, glasses, ringing pagers, and heavy discussion. A blare of static and Starling faintly heard her voice. "Hello? Hello! Mapp here!"  
  
She flinched at the inevitable pang of familiarity. "Hello."  
  
"Speak up! Can't hear you! Anyone there? Hello!"  
  
The thought of raising her voice triggered something relative to unexpected but instant mortification. By this time, Starling was much accustomed to behaving—at least in tone quality—in the most ladylike of manners. Anything else felt vulgar and wrong, despite the many years of alternative practice. Something else she would undoubtedly lose upon her leave.   
  
More so, she didn't want Dr. Lecter to hear her speaking. Perhaps her friend would exhibit the courtesy to move to a place less crowded.   
  
Thus, reluctantly, she raised her voice and announced loudly, "Ardelia! It's Clarice!" Funny. She hadn't referred to herself as Clarice for years, but this emerged naturally, without forethought. Another habit. Dr. Lecter never said her last name without 'Officer' or 'Miss' preceding it.   
  
A brief second of bewildered suspension. "Starling!" she exclaimed the next instant. "Good God, it seems like it's been forever since you last called!"  
  
"We've been busy," she acknowledged with a weak grin. "I—"  
  
"Hold on, babe. Lemme get out of this circus."  
  
The sound drifted away and was sealed off completely with a door slamming.  
  
"You caught me at lunch, girl," her friend said good-naturedly. "How the hell are yah?"  
  
"Pretty good," she lied, smiling though. It was good to hear her friend's voice again. "Getting along. How was graduation, Special Agent Mapp?" Starling did an admirable job of concealing her bitterness, unfounded as it was, something else that had improved since coming here.  
  
"Good, good. Sucked that you weren't there. I could tell Crawford was pretty bummed."  
  
Her brows perked and her eyes sparkled as though remembering something amusing. "Hmmm…yes. I would imagine so."  
  
"Got a funny story about him."  
  
"Yeah, already heard. Straight from the horse's mouth."  
  
"He came over there, then. Figures. I thought he would. How'ere lessons going?"  
  
Odd how improper grammar should annoy her so…  
  
"I had my first test two days ago," Starling replied, shaking the thought away. _Will not become pretentious snob. Will not become pretentious snob. Will not become— _  
  
"Oh! Lemme guess…" Mapp trailed off and grunted a series of strange sounds she apparently associated with deep thought. "You had to dance around a pole while provocatively sucking on a pop-sickle."  
  
Starling nearly snorted at the image that suggestion provided and emphatically shook her head, as though her friend was standing in front of her. "Hardly," she retorted with a defensive air. "No, lessons have mainly consisted of language, posture, and table manners, actually."  
  
"That's it?" Mapp barked in something resembling stunned disbelief. "You've been there for _how _long, and you're just working on fucking posture? Hon, I thought—"  
  
"He's also helping me—really helping me—with the Buffalo Bill file."  
  
"Taking his ever-loving time, in that case," she snickered. "Speaking of which, did you hear? Last was—"  
  
"Scalped, yes. Lecter told me he would start that soon."  
  
There was a huff of unimpressed air. "Well, spank my ass and call me Charlie. That man's a regular Einstein, ain't he? Come _on, _Starling. Even Crawford says he saw that one coming."  
  
That seemed rather unlikely. "Before or after she floated?" Starling asked coldly.  
  
A reluctant pause.  
  
"Yes. That's what I thought."  
  
Mapp coughed and fluidly switched topics. "So…ummm, has the doc made any moves on you? Answer me honestly, girl. You've been living over there for months."   
  
"Well…" _Ah hell, might as well. _"I think he was going to kiss me the other day, but he didn't."  
  
The silence from the other line was smug though somewhat disappointed, to the affect of 'oh, is that all'? She didn't know what Mapp expected. In her world, she supposed a tiny kiss was hardly the heat of good gossip. To Starling, it meant the beginning of her conventional undoing.  
  
"Why didn't he?" she finally asked.  
  
"Either because he didn't want to, or because Barney walked up."  
  
"Oh well," Mapp replied with a sigh, as though losing interest in the subject. "You know what they say: 'You must remember this…a kiss is just a kiss.'"  
  
"Actually, the line is, 'a kiss is _still _a kiss.' I don't know why everyone gets that wrong."  
  
"Are we Miss Cultured now? I sure hope you don't come home with an 'I'm more superior than thee' attitude. I'd have to whup your ass." The tone sounded innocent, but Starling's heightened insight allowed her to detect the rawness of accusation, suggesting she had done something morally wrong in correcting the misinterpreted song lyric.   
  
Without warning, the conversation treaded into dangerous territory. It was abrupt: along with the sharp realization of the rift dividing their friendship, caused by time and the long-invisible strains of difference. And the beginning of impending prejudice, both for her position and her unconventional break from what was expected. Having been apart so long was finally taking its toll. This new person she found herself molded into, by _herself _and not Dr. Lecter, was annoyed and flustered. Oddly, this didn't seem to bother her as much as it should.   
  
And, all things considered, she wasn't in the mood to put up with it. There was plenty to worry about as it was.  
  
"Ardelia, I don't want to fight over a song."  
  
"Chrissake, Starling, don't get so touchy. I—"  
  
"And I've had enough of taunting and lectures over this situation. No more allegations. This is stupid." Starling sighed. "I'll call you sometime."  
  
"Ease up, there, girl! Whoa, you must really have—"  
  
"Goodbye." She clicked the phone off and deactivated its power to prevent Mapp from calling her back, sighed again and tossed it over the bed.   
  
With all there was to regard, Starling refused to allow her friend the leeway that was so desperately craved only to suffer ridicule and accusation. Never had she thought her decision for self-improvement would affect her this way, but she couldn't say she regretted it. Indisputably, now more than ever, things would change. She had never suspected her friendship with Mapp to be one of the alterations, but in all logicality, it seemed most probable. It hadn't occurred to her before, but she realized that the number of qualities she used to possess—now on a level considered rudimentary and crude—were the very same distributed by her associates. Starling loved Mapp dearly, but the accurate picture of life her new world was creating forbade her to overlook the obvious.  
  
Maybe she wouldn't fall back into habit when she returned. The proposition was ridiculous, as it is human tendency to conform to surroundings, but maybe she wouldn't. Maybe this was her for the rest of her life.  
  
If that was the case, there were serious matters to be measured. Her original objective here revolved around bettering herself for the presence of work colleagues. However, for the first time, Starling envisioned the initial arrival back to school with a spiral of apprehension. Not that she didn't believe she could do it. Now, more than ever, she saw herself wholly capable of beating the odds and putting all others to shame. It was more the definitive question if she wanted to at all. If this was as she saw herself spending her life; constantly surrounded by people she hated, who likewise hated her.  
  
What was left for her then? If not what she had prepared for all her life, what?  
  
All was hazy and she preferred not to think about it, despite the necessity of consideration. Right now, there were plenty of other things to worry with. An upcoming test that would define everything she learned.  
  
It was difficult to fret over a final exam when the rest of her life loomed in the afterward.  
  
Three knocks at her door startled her out of her reverie. Without thinking, Starling shook her head and offered a vocal, "Come in!" before freezing in realization of whom likely stood outside. The last thing she wanted him to see was this state of uncertainty. She was beyond convinced that he had a suggestion or two to help dig her out of whatever trench she had worked herself in, but Starling felt it was inappropriate, given their situation, to accept any advice. The path she dreaded to approach might illuminate, and she had little doubt that he would take great pleasure in pushing her across that concluding barrier.  
  
When the door opened, however, it was only Mrs. Pearce, carrying a tray with what looked like a freshly cooked lunch and a glass of wine. "If you'll pardon me, Ms. Starling," she said politely, setting it on a decorative though small worktable in the corner of the room. "Dr. Lecter thought you might get hungry and asked me to bring this up as to save you the hassle of venturing downstairs."  
  
She smiled graciously, noticing a pang of hunger that reflected immediately off suggestion. "Yes! Thank you, Mrs. Pearce. It smells delicious."  
  
"That will please the doctor very much," the housekeeper replied warmly. "Just between us, I think he's eager that you approve of his cooking."  
  
Starling blinked. "He cooked?"  
  
"Yes. He cooks often, when he has time." Mrs. Pearce seemed surprised at the insinuation that anything else was remotely possible. "He's been busy with this final project, but he wanted you to have a good lunch."  
  
She felt a rush of something she couldn't identify and shivered lightly to brush it off. The affect was unsuccessful. "Send Dr. Lecter my thanks and compliments."  
  
"Will you be joining the doctor and Mr. Jackson this evening? —Or will I need to bring something up?"  
  
"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," Starling replied with appreciative dismissal. "Tell Dr. Lecter not to trouble himself on my behalf. I'll make my own supper."  
  
That didn't seem to be a satisfactory answer. With untrusting narrowed eyes, Mrs. Pearce cocked her head to one side. "Will you permit me to make an observation?"  
  
"Certainly." As soon as the word left her lips, Starling tensed with tickling anticipation and regret. The last thing she needed was a therapy session with a house cleaner. Twice in one day, not to mention no more than ten minutes apart, was enough to fill her plate. Still, she was curious. If this woman could make such inspections, she must be wearing her emotions on her sleeves. It seemed with the improvement of certain areas meant the disintegration of others. Starling before prided herself at being remarkably difficult to read, except when in the presence of the doctor, of course. Despite everything, she always felt he knew exactly what was going through her mind.  
  
If Mrs. Pearce was at all aware of her fear, she made either no reference to it or simply didn't care. "Neither you nor Dr. Lecter have seemed yourselves since your outing. Did he say something to offend? Is that why you—"  
  
"No," Starling said sharply. "No. I'm just tired, is all. It's been a trying few days."  
  
Unconvinced, the housekeeper hesitated briefly but nodded. "All right. I am to inform you that lessons and arrangements are to resume tomorrow. I think you're allowed to sleep until 8:30."  
  
"That's more than enough time, thank you. I will be sure to get plenty of rest tonight." She turned away, hoping the woman would recognize the request for privacy. "But do tell Dr. Lecter if he is so concerned with something he might have said on the trip to Baltimore and wonders of my disposition, he should inquire himself."   
  
To this there was stunned silence but no want of denial. Instead, the woman scurried to make her leave. Starling smiled wryly to herself and turned her attention to the steaming dish awaiting her.  
  
It was sometime later before she felt like emerging from her bedchamber. The afternoon was spent reviewing her conversation with Mapp and the web of realization it strung as a result. Questions hounded at her, all screaming for satisfaction at once, but she had none to offer.   
  
The issue that tormented her was the suggestion that she might never return to Quantico, never again seek a life in the FBI, and give up now. Give up. Those words haunted her with deathly perseverance. Though, if she decided a separate career pathway, would it be giving up? There were other prospects, of course, other options open and waiting for her. Was the life she had led, the only existence she had known before coming here made for her or someone else? Did she want it because of personal motivation, or because Daddy knows best? There was no question in her mind that she was good at it, nor was there any doubt that she was just as if not more talented at any number of things.   
  
Was it possible, though, to be good at something that you never had anything to show for? Not because of personal carelessness, rather the persuasion and efforts of others. A few nights ago, Dr. Lecter asked her if she thought any of this would change the attitudes and respect of those she knew at school. Then, the implication was intrusive. However, not even a week had passed and under brightened light, it seemed probable, even likely.  
  
Paul Krendler would not accept the concept that she could disappear for six months and return more educated, experienced, relaxed, calm, everything she was before and more. Mannerisms had improved, even since the Baltimore trip. It was almost like a foreign language; the classes helped but were incomparable to the experience of living it. Starling recalled the year that Mapp's family took a vacation to South America over holiday. Her friend had returned only to impress classmates in speaking fluent Spanish. This faded over time; of course, as new attractions came and went, but it was enjoyable while it lasted.  
  
The lunch Dr. Lecter provided was exquisite and kept her full for a long time. It wasn't until around nine that evening that she felt the need to investigate dinner options. Inward battles took their toll, and at the end of the day, she found herself as fatigued and famished as she would to return from a long run. Dressing in her robe, she crept downstairs to snoop through the pantry.   
  
Every room of Dr. Lecter's residence was a museum within its own rights, and the kitchen was no exception. However, with growing familiarity, she no longer concerned herself when minor spills were made or if a crumb or two fell to the floor. Intending to retire for the evening after her craving was satisfied, Starling settled with one of the asiago cheese bagels that Mrs. Pearce kept stored in the breadbox. It wasn't until she went to pour herself a glass of water that she saw the note waiting for her beside the cupboards.  
  
Her breath caught in her throat, recognizing the copperplate hand even from a distance. _He's angry, _she thought, suddenly cold with dread. He had a right to be. In two days she had barely spoken three words to him. Unquestionably, her discussion with the housekeeper and her forward address to all inquiries had been reported. A note could mean several things, but for whatever reason, Starling found reading his words much more difficult than having him stand before her and voice them himself. With hesitance, she placed the glass aside and reached for the parchment, knowing it could not go ignored.  
  
The words were not cruel or welcoming, but the lack of warning only increased her anxiety. Dr. Lecter had a certain gift about him that allowed him to convey a message without using any words of trepidation.  
  
_Clarice,  
  
Forgive the earlier intrusion. I did not anticipate an inconvenience, or an interruption to your privacy. There are a few bagels left in the breadbox, if you like. Otherwise, feel free to experiment. Mrs. Pearce will be awakening you at 8:30 tomorrow morning, and I expect you in the parlor no later than 9 am. Pleasant dreams.  
  
Hannibal _  
  
Starling pursed her lips and set the paper aside. She hesitated, grasped her water again and turned to march up those stairs and regard the evening as though no breech was crossed, as though this visit never occurred. However, she was unable to ignore the rush of guilt at her blatant avoidance of his company. It was unspeakably rude, especially after such an excursion.   
  
It was several things. On second reading, the note was neither bitter nor friendly, rather, apologetic and informatory. All that and more, it made her question the informality in which he signed his name.   
  
_Mustn't read too much into things. You've been living in his house for a damn near half year. You'd think he could sign his fucking name without provoking conspiracy. _  
  
These musings led her not to her bedchamber, but to the parlor. A sudden attack of cabin fever engulfed her, perhaps prompted by the letter, and perhaps repressed, having found reason to emerge. The room was dark and vacant, the other nightly occupants resolved to their rooms. Her gatherings from the kitchen were placed on the coffee table, having lost her appetite. It seemed entirely early for anyone in this household to retire, but she failed to question her good fortune. Still she preferred the solitude of her own company, certain that any heavy peripheral infringement would lead only to further confusion.  
  
For the millionth time that day, she replayed the conversation held with Mapp, the conclusions to be drawn from such an encounter. Forlornly, Starling ran her hand at arm's length across the piano before finding seat on the bench. An inward gnawing stirred at the prompt that the life she knew here, shackled within these walls, was all that was left of her. When the project was finished, then what? Was she to turn around and march into the existence she abandoned, pick up directly where she left off only now educated to hold her tongue and prove her worthiness in the form of completed cases and insight second only to Marcus Aurelius? What sort of reality was that?  
  
Or was this all there was of her? Suppose Dr. Lecter asked her to stay when their time was over. What then? Could she feasibly accept? What was there for her here?  
  
What _wasn't _for her here? What _would _she be giving up, not leaving behind?  
  
_People would say we're in love, _she thought grimly as her fingers tickled the piano keys. As a child, she had never obtained regular lessons, just enough here and there to play bits of partially familiar songs. That was one of her greater regrets: never mastering an instrument. Out of idleness and disarray, she began the accompaniment to _Heart and Soul, _the only piece she knew all the way through for the way it was overemphasized across the country, even and especially by those who didn't know how to play the piano.  
  
"Heart and soul," she sang dimly, her mind far away. "I fell in love with you, heart and soul. The way a fool would do, madly. Because you held me tight, and stole a kiss in the night. Heart and soul, I begged to be adored. Lost control, and tumbled overboard, gladly…"   
  
Absently, mind detached and far away, her eyes wandered upward. The darkness did not hamper her from seeing him immediately, and a gasp caught in her throat as her heart stopped. Standing in the doorway was the object of her suffering confusion, regarding with her with almost affectionate amusement. His lips were taut in a thin but earnest smile, and his eyes glistening in that familiar, maddening fashion. Immediately, as though scorned, Starling jumped from the bench and brought her arms behind her. The sharpness of her leave left the notes to die into silence and she had little time to compose herself. "My apologies, Dr. Lecter," she pardoned immediately, struggling to find her voice. "I did not mean to wake you."  
  
"That is not necessary, Clarice," he excused, stepping forward. The stride shuddered through her. "You did not wake me." For a minute, it appeared he might continue, but his voice died and they were still, captured in a gaze. To her growing irritability, he offered no explanation; rather crossed his arms behind his back and looked at her coyly, reveling in newfound silence. A second shudder reluctantly coursed through her, and did nothing more than heighten her agitation. It was difficult to keep her wits about herself when her reaction to him merited endless shudders and an inability to keep from flustering in his presence.   
  
As the moments stretched and taunted, Starling clamped her teeth on her lower lip to keep herself quiet. Her agonized nerves craved elaboration, but she was sensible enough to realize it was presumptuous to demand someone's motives for walking around their own home, despite the circumstances. Holding back a sigh, she eyed the stairway still visible behind him. With little forthcoming, it was best to place curiosity aside. If she could just get to her room and have that be the end of it…but she knew he wouldn't allow such an abrupt abscond after avoiding him for two days, especially now that he had her cornered.   
  
"I trust all is well," Dr. Lecter said courteously the next instant. "Did you find everything you need?"  
  
She assumed he was referring to the kitchen. "Yes…thank you." They fell into silence again, not altogether uncomfortable this time, but she feared its enormity with age. With each passing second, her desire to be bolted behind her bedroom door increased, almost beyond the strains of control. However, she realized if facing him now was this difficult, even with so little said, that tomorrow's prearranged meeting would be just as singular. "Would you excuse me, Doctor? I didn't mean to trouble you." The advancement she made for the stairs was futile, but worth a shot.   
  
"Of course," he replied, stepping aside to allow her passage, much to her surprise. That was so like him. Right when she had an action pinpointed, he would do the opposite as an innocent reminder that she would never have him figured out. "May I ask, Clarice, if you are feeling well? Barney has been most concerned. We would not want you to fall ill."  
  
Starling paused, gathering her water and bagel off the coffee table. With more shortness in her tone than she intended to reveal, she spat, "Yes, Dr. Lecter, I am quite well. I assure you, my mood will not hamper your plans for this all-important final project." From where her tetchiness originated, she knew not. Perhaps the insinuation, the reminder, the slightest hint that her temperament could potentially ruin looming plans that would ultimately lead to her dismissal. His gaze reflected no surprise at her words, and before she could allow herself to retract and apologize, she hurriedly moved for the door and bolted for her room.  
  
She made it as far as the third stair before he spoke again. Though he had not moved an inch, his voice had not increased in volume, nor did it need to. It was as if his tonality possessed control of her motor functions, and she found herself unable to continue and simply ignore him. Before the first breath was taken, Starling froze promptly in place.  
  
"You play very well, Clarice."  
  
At that, she snickered lightly, some of her tension falling, turning back to face him. The rapidity of the statement should have surprised her, but it didn't. If it was his objective to melt her uneasiness, she feared he was on the pathway to success, though she refused to let her guard down. Starling took one step downward and quirked an eyebrow. "I don't play at all," she retorted. "Had a few lessons when I was a kid, but I can't play to save my life."  
  
"I heard nothing lacking in your talents."  
  
If it had been anyone else, she would have suspected this line of dubious compliments to the objective of some devious intention. However, Dr. Lecter had long ago earned her respect and trust in that field. He knew her well enough not to play that sort of game with her. "Everyone knows how to play _Heart and Soul," _she argued, descending another step.  
  
"The main theme, perhaps, but the accompaniment is not so easily achieved." Dr. Lecter backed a pace toward the piano. Clever maneuver. She felt she had to recover it. "Mrs. Pearce was offended by your acrimony this afternoon."   
  
Starling, fully off the stairs now, followed him back into the parlor, again setting her things aside, determined to keep up, no matter how often he changed the subject. "Mrs. Pearce gravely exaggerated my disposition. I was tired, is all."  
  
"You have shut yourself off for two days now," he observed, assuming her former position at the piano, eyes not breaking from hers as he began to play, something much more dignified and practiced than a piece by Hoagy Carmichael. "You were not offended, I hope, or too terribly embarrassed about—"  
  
"No, Dr. Lecter," she said firmly, shaking her head. "I am nothing more than what I said. Simply tired. There are things I'm having to consider." Briefly, she cursed herself for admitting that, but it was difficult to ignore the new feeling of comfort soaring through her. The nightly discussions she held with the doctor, not ritualistically but often, soothed her in many ways. It was a particular feat; she noticed the lambs never screamed after she talked with him.  
  
She had not told him about the lambs yet.  
  
"Oh?" They spoke as though the music were nonexistent, eyes locked.   
  
"It's not important."  
  
Where she expected him to wheedle, Dr. Lecter seemed to accept this and finally looked away, fixing on the invisible music in front of him. "Noble Pilcher has called on you twice," he mentioned casually. "He left two letters, if you are interested. I will give them to you tomorrow."  
  
"Why not now?" Not that she was too attracted by the concept, but the need to dissect his reaction was unavoidable. Should he reveal the smallest inkling jealousy, she would have all the answer she ever needed.   
  
Whatever she wanted to see, she did not. Instead, the doctor arched his brows and stood. "If you want," he muttered.   
  
"No, don't trouble yourself." Something fell within her, but she failed to acknowledge it. "I don't want to keep you up, Dr. Lecter. If we have such a horrendous day ahead of us, is it not wise to retire for the evening?"  
  
"Of course," he agreed, meeting her gaze again. They stood like that for a minute, transfixed and still. Then it was over, and he brushed passed her, moving up the stairway. "In the morning it is then, Clarice."  
  
For long moments, she stood motionless, back to where he had disappeared. It was a while before her breathing could regulate, having not even noticed the indiscretion in pattern. Now, it seemed, her reaction to his words, gaze, even presence was second nature, unremarkable, but no less confusing than it ever was. And, she suspected, nothing he elicited out of her could ever be described as unexceptional. Rather, she supposed, it was now a regular occurrence that she no longer questioned.  
  
"Oh, Clarice," he said suddenly, his voice no more removed than it was minutes earlier. Startled, she gasped and jumped to face him. Dr. Lecter stood as he had, perhaps having forgot something, but she had the sinking sensation that he had been watching her all along. When he smiled at this realization, she shrank effortlessly into shivers. "One more thing. Your playing _is _exceptional. You have applied yourself in areas better worth your while. No one granted the privilege of hearing could think anything wanting. Pleasant dreams." Then, with her gaze burning in his back with the fullness of perplexity, he disappeared into the darkness.   
  
Starling stood, gloriously lost, questions pounding her mind from a million directions. It wasn't until she heard his door close, until she was sure that he would not emerge again that she could work her nerves enough to follow his example and retreat to her room.  
  
There she did not find rest. Starling spent many hours staring at the ceiling, her mind jumbled in a massive vortex, an onslaught of confused notions and feelings. Options eddied and collided before finally caving in to a troublesome, agitated sleep.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
And so, the crucial evening arrived.   
  
For the past two weeks, Dr. Lecter had drilled Starling mercilessly without mention of their fleeting conversation. His attitude seemed no more heightened, and things, generally, returned to the way they were prior to the excursion to town.   
  
The next morning, she had awakened as promised at 8:30 by Mrs. Pearce and was allowed a half-hour to prepare. When she finally trailed downstairs, nerves rattling at her bones uncontrollably, she found Dr. Lecter and Barney in the parlor, engaged in heated discussion. Evidently, it was Barney's desire to call the entire project off. He stated it was unfair to continue now that everyone was high-strung and unlike themselves. Dr. Lecter, unaffected by his threats, went on to describe what exactly the final project consisted of rather than recognize the insinuation that it might not take place.   
  
Evidently, the doctor had a former patient whose served as a Presidential advisor. Acting on that fortunate contact, he had secured three invitations to the upcoming dinner that was to honor the arrival of the French Ambassador.   
  
In reaction, Starling admitted she had not expected something so extravagant, but similarly that it failed to frighten her. "Anything," she had observed, "is possible after facing your friends."  
  
Good-naturedly, Dr. Lecter had acknowledged that was most likely the truth.  
  
Thus, all resumed to a stage of normality with no mention of the prior evening's finale. However, it loomed over them, unwavering, along with the moment they had nearly shared at Plimco. Neither spoken of, but similarly, neither over and done.  
  
That wasn't to say nightly conversations did not resume. No, Starling found great comfort in chatting with the doctor after Barney had retired to his room. The list of things to discuss was endless, but in the mindset of keeping both parties comfortable without sinking to that level of irritability once more, the topic most reviewed was the Buffalo Bill case file. Often, she sat cross-legged by the fireplace, nodding as he spoke and jotting notes alongside the given facts. The pages were smeared with black and blue ink.   
  
He surprised her one evening as she assumed her position and asked her, quite calmly, "Do you sew at all?" When he offered no explanation to support the question, she merely wrote the word _SEW _in large letters on one of the relatively clean pages with several question marks trailing after it.  
  
There were other things she had pieced together. On the back flap, she was constructing a line of connections, all leading to the mysterious conclusion. _COVET-EVERY-DAY-BELEVEDERE???-COVETAGAIN?-SEW-????? _  
  
Despite her efforts, this strain of clues made absolutely no sense to her. She was tired from trying to break the code, and there were other things to prepare for.  
  
And now, before anyone could blink in realization, the night was here. The night that would decide the prudence of the rest of her life. As prior to their meeting with Mrs. Rosencranz, her hair and cosmetics were done professionally. All she was left to worry with was her wardrobe.   
  
A black dress, long, elegant, and classy was delivered to her room two hours before leave along with Gucci shoes and assorted pieces of fine jewelry. Perhaps hired, but she didn't think so. The dress was accompanied with gloves that stretched to her elbows, and when she modeled for Mrs. Pearce, she felt entirely reborn. It seemed impossible that they were here already, but here she stood.   
  
And after tonight…?  
  
Starling vowed not to worry about the afterward. There was tonight and tonight alone. That did not satisfy the nagging at the far ends of her mind, but she did her best to ignore it.  
  
Downstairs, the mannerisms were quite different. Dr. Lecter lounged comfortably in the parlor, regarding Barney with some amusement as he paced backward and forward, wracked with nervousness. Of everyone in the house, his friend seemed the most distressed. Never before had he seen him so tense. It was hard to tell if his grief was aimed at Starling's imminent performance or the thought that he had to be there in witness of it all.   
  
The house quaked with every step he took.   
  
"If there's any mishap tonight, if Clarice suffers any embarrassment whatever, it'll be on your head alone," Barney stated accusatively, as though such an unfortunate event had already occurred. "You've hounded that girl night and day and if she's exhausted, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."  
  
Dr. Lecter was not as concerned which seemed to agitate the general company. "Calm yourself," he said dismissively. He was unaccustomed to people not reacting to his voice, but Barney seemed hounded enough with his own bellyaching to pay any mind to outside interference.  
  
"Suppose she's discovered? Suppose she makes another mistake?"  
  
"There will be no horses in the White House, I assure you."  
  
Ignoring the doctor promptly, Barney shook his massive head and ground his teeth together. "Think how agonizing it would be. Oh, if anything happens tonight, I don't know what I'll do."  
  
"There's always that job opening. We haven't discussed it for some time, but I am to understand that it is yours for the taking whenever you wish to claim it."  
  
The man stopped short and glared at him. "This is no time for jokes, Doc. The way you've driven the bird the last two weeks passes all bounds of common decency. For God's sake, Doc, stop pacing up and down. Can't you settle somewhere?" He promptly ignored the fact that his friend wasn't standing and continued with his tread from one corner of the room to the next.   
  
"Have some port. It will quieten your nerves."  
  
"I'm not nervous!" Barney shouted. "…where is it?"  
  
Amused, Dr. Lecter waved generally. "On the piano."  
  
As the man hurried to pour himself a glass, which was downed and refilled within ten seconds, Mrs. Pearce entered to announce the car had arrived.  
  
"Oh good. Tell Ms. Starling, will you?" The doctor nodded, turning his gaze expectantly to Barney, who was pouring his third. "Are you ready?"   
  
Without replying, he consumed the contents before finally placing the glass aside. "Tell Ms. Starling indeed. Something's going to go wrong, I'm telling you. I'll bet that damn gown doesn't fit. Will you have a glass of port?"  
  
The flippancy in his topic only increased Dr. Lecter's humor. He chuckled shortly and shook his head. "No, thank you."  
  
"Are you sure the bird will keep everything you've hammered into her?"  
  
To that, the doctor knew the answer perfectly well. However, he merely shrugged uncharacteristically and turned away. "I suppose we shall see."  
  
"What if she doesn't?"  
  
He quirked a brow. "I should think that is rather obvious. I lose my bet."  
  
Barney sighed as though offended, shaking his head as he seized his glass again. "Doc, there's one thing I can't stand about you. It's your annoying self-satisfaction. At a moment like this when so much is at stake, it is absolutely beneath you that you don't need a glass of port." He jerked his head back and drained another glass. "And what about the bird? You act as though she doesn't matter at all."   
  
Dr. Lecter frowned. Either his friend was trying to get around something or he was not observant was once credited. However, he could not conceal a small portion of pleasure to have someone so deceived. "Oh rubbish, Barney. Of course she matters. You know better than that." He broke and looked away, clearing his throat unnecessarily to wan clear any ulterior suspicions. "She matters immensely."  
  
However, Barney was no longer listening, which was most likely for the better. His gaze was transfixed on the entryway, his face brightening into a smile that seemed to banish all worries. "Ms. Starling!" he said loudly. "You look beautiful."   
  
At mention of her name, Dr. Lecter turned to see her and his breath caught in his throat. The woman he viewed coming toward them was not overly confident, nervous but covering it well enough that not many would notice. Mere English sentences could not justly describe her animation and vulnerability. More so than ever before, she was breathtaking. It was the perfect combination of style and emotion. Not only for the dress. If at all, _nothing _for the dress. He had seen many women in the same attire, but combined with her ferocity and determination, the vision was beyond comparison. Her gaze was not commanded by Barney's, rather his. For all his sense and education, he could not summon the words, even inwardly, to describe her, or even summon the proper reaction. Beautiful seemed too weak a remark for application, and was already in use. He felt no need to insult her by understating how radiant she was. Thus, Dr. Lecter resorted to stunned silence, for one of the few, if not the first time, he found himself utterly speechless.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Jackson," Starling replied warmly, her eyes, however, captured in his.  
  
"Don't you think so, Doc?" Barney asked, nudging him slightly.  
  
But Dr. Lecter wasn't paying attention. After a minute, he cleared his throat, adopted his scrupulous gaze and looked her over severely. "Hmm," he decided. "Not bad. Not bad at all."   
  
Barney irately dismissed this elusiveness and stepped forward. On the wiser, Starling's eyes lingered with his a beat longer before she turned to smile at Mrs. Pearce, who reassured her of her stunning appearance. No one saw Dr. Lecter retreat casually to the piano where he, too, downed a glass of port.  
  
He reentered seconds later in perfect command of himself and kissed her hand, gloved as it was. Then he trailed upward, unable to resist, and whispered lowly into her ear, "Vae, puto deus fio."  
  
Dr. Lecter took some satisfaction when she shivered, but couldn't restrain one himself. "What does that mean?" she asked, tickling his face with her breath.  
  
"Remind me to tell you when we return." Then he offered his arm and smiled at her as she accepted. "Are you ready, Clarice?" he questioned audibly.  
  
"As ready as I'll ever be."  
  
"Excellent. Then let's be off."  
  
And so they walked out, facing this night that would decide the future for both, arms linked with Barney trailing behind them. Tension crackled and soared, revelations and confusions, both repressed and openly founded seemed to pollute their air. None of this was vocalized, of course. For everything, no one in the car could utter a single word.  
  
  


* * * 


	11. Final Test

Author's Note: Though I have been to Washington, I have unfortunately never toured the White House. The information herein is the product of tedious research. I would also like to say that the very minor political slander is not intended to offend anyone.   
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.   
  
Chapter Ten   
  
The approach to the entrance might have been a bit more magical were it not for Barney's ritualistic chant of, "I'm nauseous, I'm nauseous, I'm nauseous." It wasn't intrusive or even loud enough for anyone beyond his immediate party to hear, but in retrospect, he had nothing to dread.   
  
Starling was surprisingly calm, though she expected a full-blown attack on her nerves upon entering. That seemed to be her habitual. She was always collected until the climactic crucial moment.   
  
Before they reached the door, Dr. Lecter turned to Barney sharply and said, "If you feel you are going to be ill, perhaps it is best that you wait outside."  
  
Indeed, at that moment, the man truly looked sick. If it hadn't been for the knowledge that he hadn't eaten a bite all day for nervousness, Starling would have instinctively paced herself away. "Where?" he asked. "Just sit outside and wait for you to pick me up? I'm sure Secret Service would _love _that."  
  
"You are welcome to occupy yourself in the car," the doctor reminded him gently. "No need to make Ms. Starling any more tense than she is at present." This was said more or less for affect; a shared glance revealed that he knew she was in perfect control of herself, but similarly concerned that such stamina would dissipate inside.  
  
Barney shook his head in firm disagreement. "Shut up. Let's get this over with."  
  
"I'm sure that's not the first time someone has said that upon entering the White House," Starling murmured audibly. It was the first thing to come out of her mouth since leaving the manor, and Dr. Lecter could not suppress a grin of amusement.   
  
Strange that heightened moods should be in more casual spirits than they were when confronted by Mrs. Rosencranz and her merry band of friends. Perhaps it was the air of familiarity, or taking to heart that facing the President of the United States was reasonably simpler than observation under such strict scrutiny. Nevertheless, Starling refused to let herself to forget where she was, who she was with, and what was ideally the evening's objective.  
  
"Be on your best behavior, Clarice," Dr. Lecter hissed in empty warning. It was more for affect, and she, as per expectation, shivered.   
  
"No offense, Doctor," she retorted boldly. "But you can't honestly expect me to go the entire evening without making a comment or two."  
  
"I can and do. What would become of you if you fail this exam? I doubt you would like to be stuck with me for another six months." He met her gaze challengingly, and it pierced her in retribution.   
  
However, Starling failed to shrink to challenge, regardless of how that remark stung. "You tell me," she replied, quirking her brows.  
  
It was a very unsuccessful start to the evening. Mindless—however playful—bickering of this nature in front of the White House, dressed in such formal attire reminded her of several instances on the school playground. Starling was fairly certain that Dr. Lecter would have retorted wittily had they not crossed the threshold inward. Thus, the escapade began. Even Barney ceased his recitation and fell silent, as though the commotion, as mild as it was, would not guise his complaints about a faulty digestive system.  
  
It wasn't until they were greeted and hurried inside that Starling felt her chest constrict and her bowels wrench in a knot. From nowhere, it came, hitting her with the power of a thousand bee stings, dread so cold that her skin sprouted into goosebumps and she couldn't restrain a shiver. "Oh God," she whispered, perhaps a bit too loudly. "Now I'm nauseous."  
  
A look of panic overcame Barney and he rushed to her side, forcefully taking her elbow. "Oh God. It's my fault. Power of suggestion. Hey Doc, where are the—"  
  
"I'm fine," Starling barked in indecision, reclaiming her arm with a fierce yank. The last thing she needed was Barney making this worse by involuntary incentive. "Let me cope. This isn't all that bad." It was easy to say, of course, but she knew when she looked to Dr. Lecter that she betrayed her rattling nerves.   
  
"Just remember," he said reassuringly, "all will be over after tonight."  
  
If only he knew how much that thought failed to put her at ease.  
  
Upon entry, the guests were ushered to the Red Room, where the President would receive them prior to supper. Starling had toured the White House before, but she saw it now, like many things, as though for the first time. Such awe was enough to put her restless mental strain at momentary ease. Never before had the woodwork fascinated her, the history of various pieces of furniture been considered enthralling. The walls were decorated supremely, and several additional adornments included a piano and a harp. Such alleviation was welcomingly different; sensing and experiencing through higher levels of appreciation, without having to change, really change, at all.  
  
To think, this was her last party before the reemergence into the all-dreaded real world. Starling released a quaking breath and her lip quivered a bit in foreboding trepidation.  
  
Dr. Lecter knew nothing of these fears, either by willful ignorance or for the impossible prospect that for once in his life, he was lost as well.  
  
That thought, though beyond unnerving, offered the first bit of comfort she had tasted in weeks.  
  
It wasn't until her face warmed that she realized the doctor was speaking to her, murmuring tidbits that were inconsequential, but she focused on his words anyway. It was easier than trying to remember herself. However, Starling also kept her temperament very much in mind. He wouldn't be able to speak to her all night; he might even—unthinkable as it was—leave her to cope alone.   
  
"The house itself covers approximately eighteen acres," he was saying. "The site was selected by President Washington and Pierre Charles L'Enfant, and I believe the design was influenced by the Leinster House, perhaps even…"  
  
It was at times like this that tuning him out was especially essential, though she was amazed how such tedious bits of trivia could manage to sooth her. However, as he approached the subject of the various times the house had been burnt and reconstructed, Starling could not keep her voice silent. The thrill of their banter suppressed any need for additional comfort. "Is there a point to this incessant rambling?"  
  
"Merely the enlightenment of your horizons, my dear." His tone was light in reassurance that he suffered no bruised inclination. "Though I must admit I am surprised. You seemed so enthralled."  
  
"I was enjoying the quartet," she replied with a smirk.   
  
"My apologies for interrupting such cultural refinement," Dr. Lecter retorted knowingly. "Though I must applaud your sense of taste. I do so admire Mozart."  
  
"I'm dizzy," Barney announced. It seemed he always interrupted at the most inconvenient moments.   
  
By guilty instinct, the doctor took a step back, achieving little as they were still linked at the arm. "Perhaps you drank a bit too much port," he suggested wryly, earning an especially sharp glare.   
  
"And whose fault is that?"  
  
Starling looked in confusion from one to the other. She must have missed something.  
  
The doctor flashed the grin that she was so accustomed to, and she was surprised when it made her shiver still. Such was a natural reaction now and would not have made her question herself had she failed to realize she was not its target. Dr. Lecter seemed to notice this, as well, for his eyes sparkled with barely concealed glee.  
  
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he replied innocently.  
  
At that, she smirked. He could be so boyish at times.  
  
"Fucking port," Barney muttered dejectedly, plucking a glass of champagne off the proffered tray distributed by various passing butlers.   
  
Her leer dissolved into kindness, and by no sense of obligation, she detached herself from Dr. Lecter's arm to approach their agitated companion as he gulped the glass's contents down swiftly, grimacing to himself. "You're worried enough for both us," Starling observed, patting his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't concern yourself on my account. I'm not nervous." A lie. With each passing second, she was sure her nerves would betray her to the point of hysterics. However, with the channel of time, she was becoming exceedingly talented at covering her distress. "Think about it. Who do we have here to fear? Vice President Quayle isn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box. What did he say about the election? That he wanted to be Robin to Bush's Batman?" She hadn't made that up. Demonstratively, Starling rolled her eyes. "We don't have to play up for these people."  
  
Barney sniggered appreciatively. "Don't bother with me, Ms. Starling," he returned. "I know you can't be making so light of this situation, you're just better at covering it than I am. Why don't we just both put on our happy faces and try to get through the night?"  
  
"Deal," she agreed.   
  
When Starling turned to face Dr. Lecter, he was no longer there. Though her expression remained unchanged, a nerve struck. As she much as she hated the thought, she felt alone and vulnerable in a scene such as this whenever he wasn't at her side. However, she schooled herself from looking for him. Barney would suffice, and she knew he wouldn't leave her until she was comfortable. She smiled nicely to the waiter serving champagne as he handed her a fresh glass. Barney's was whisked away and replaced. Despite collectiveness, she had to discipline herself from downing it in one gulp. Mannerisms had definitely improved, but she supposed it would take years to exorcise the essential of liquor in any awkward situation.  
  
Across the room, Dr. Lecter was captured in conversation with someone he had met once or twice conventionally. The man was older than Starling and he was quite sure they had never been introduced, despite the fact they shared a remarkable connection. He was the one before her, in a sense: Jack Crawford's original tyro. Will Graham was known at Quantico as one of the most adept Behavioral Science agents of the decade. The doctor regarded him with inward humor. This one, he suspected, would be fun to toy with, should be so inclined.   
  
Of course, a man would have to be very bored.  
  
Despite appearances, there was almost an unprompted aversion; as though they were born enemies.  
  
How Graham was invited, Dr. Lecter did not know or care. He supposed it was out of courtesy that the man spoke with him now, though it was evident that he took little pleasure in it.   
  
There was an alternate use of him, however. If anyone could identify an FBI trainee—despite attire or circumstance, the doctor knew Graham was the man. Such could be beneficial for the lasting stages of this experiment.   
  
After Dr. Lecter managed to rid himself of the agent's pleasantries, he found Starling and Barney standing protectively next to each other and neared. As much as he disliked the prospect of putting the bird through anxiety that he personally did not endorse, he similarly recognized that the evening could not be called productive if they did not socialize outside the familiar circle.   
  
Not that he was sure her success was something he wanted tonight. It sealed the end of the project, and he would consequently have to part with her in the next few days, and likely—from the lives they led—not to see her again.  
  
That could be for the best, Dr. Lecter reflected unconvincingly as he approached. People of their nature could not draw too close attachments. The order of his life would imminently return, along with the tedious everydayness of all situations.   
  
He considered his nightly visits to pubs in order to find a project worth his time and could not stifle a shudder. The things a man would do to keep from boredom. Of course, had he not engaged in such disenchanting activities and associating at places of regarded poor reputation, Starling would not be here tonight. Here. With him.   
  
Such were not pleasant recollections or dwellings, but they did their job in assuring him that what had to eventually be done was in the best interest of both parties. Life was too formal for such a break. They had bent the rules and were lucky to have been overlooked for the better part of a half-year.   
  
"Dr. Lecter," Starling acknowledged as though seeing him for the first time this evening, nodding her politeness.  
  
"Good evening, Ms. Starling," he returned in kind, unable to resist the opportunity to kiss her hand once more. Dr. Lecter was pleased, though slightly discomfited, to note that she no longer seemed terribly apprehensive. Rather, her eyes reflected something of sadness, masterfully veiled, of course. He was often only allowed a glimpse of her frontage before she buried it far from sight.  
  
They were only permitted a few seconds to themselves before approached again. This time, it was the woman responsible for acquiring the invitations. A former patient of the doctor's; Mrs. Lydia Gardiner. She looked much better than he recalled, which induced a minor string of satisfaction.   
  
"Ah," Dr. Lecter said, as though pleased. "Mrs. Gardiner, allow me to present Ms. Clarice Starling and Mr. Barney Jackson. Mrs. Gardiner is accountable for our attendance tonight."   
  
On cue, Starling smiled her radiance and nodded graciously to the woman. "My thanks. What an experience! How do you do?"  
  
Mrs. Gardiner relayed her acknowledgements. "A pleasure, I'm sure. How do you do, Ms. Starling?"  
  
"I'm very well, thank you."  
  
"Excellent. There's nothing like relaxing after a stressful week at work." She laughed heartily as though she had said something highly amusing. "And what do you do, Ms. Starling?"  
  
It was like watching a shot in slow motion. Dr. Lecter saw the color drain from her face as she stumbled for an answer, unable to find one on the spot, and hurriedly dismissed herself to locate the ladies' room.  
  
Barney was beyond mortified and started to follow her, but thought the better of it. Collected as ever, the doctor could do nothing but watch her as she disappeared, knowing that while he could not pursue her, his concerns—annoying and untimely as they were—left the room at her side. It was odd, feeling a candor as human as sympathy. Long ago he thought himself void of such vulnerabilities. Starling had the aptitude to draw the rawest of humanity from his otherwise impenetrable shell. This was not without its merit, however. When something affected her mood, he was likely the only one that could see it, even if he lacked the maddening ability to root its cause.  
  
"What an enchanting young lady you have with you this evening, Mr. Jackson," Mrs. Gardiner was saying enthusiastically.  
  
Uncomfortable, Barney smiled his gratitude and nodded. "Thank you," he replied with enduring awkwardness, as though he was responsible for her being.  
  
"Who is she?"  
  
Dr. Lecter watched in distant amusement as he fumbled for an answer, blurting visibly the first thing that came to mind. "She's a cousin of mine."   
  
Mrs. Gardiner nodded kindly, then paused in confusion and stared.   
  
Bewildered and embarrassed, he scuffled again and added, "And the doctor's…excuse me." And he was gone like a bat out of hell. It was all Dr. Lecter could do to conceal his laughter.  
  
However, not even the oddest of circumstances could throw Mrs. Gardiner off course. This was good, he reflected. It showed sufficient growth from when last they met. "Dr. Lecter," she said, indicating to Starling as she returned from what he presumed was the lavatory. "She has such a far away look, as though she's always lived in a garden."  
  
Starling's appearance was hardly far and away, though she no longer seemed concerned with particulars. Instead, she was looking worriedly at someone. As Mrs. Gardiner chatted incessantly, Dr. Lecter followed the bird's eyes to sudden awareness. Standing on the other side of the room was Will Graham, having just broken from discussion with Barney. Beside him was Mrs. Rachel Rosencranz.  
  
A string of irritation surged, though he knew not at whom it was directed.  
  
"So she has," Dr. Lecter replied soundly, stepping away. "A sort of garden."  
  
Barney was chatting animatedly with his former social companion, a look of pure chagrin spread nether his features. "The doc needs to take Starling home immediately," he was saying. "There's an FBI agent here who could spot her a mile away, and—"  
  
"Nonsense, Barney," Dr. Lecter said stoutly, stopping before them with a polite nod to Mrs. Rosencranz. He looked briefly at her, only long enough to bid her good evening, and turned back to his friend, uncaring to inquire how she might have had the good fortune of being invited. Fleetingly, his mind went to Starling, who would assuredly not approve of her presence. "No harm can come from Mr. Graham's impending acquaintance with Clarice," he decided. "You act as though she is a felon, or masquerading under a false identity."  
  
"No good, no good," Barney replied stubbornly, shaking his head with emphasis. "Absolutely no good can come from this."   
  
Across the room, Starling was occupying herself with a group of ladies nearer her age, sipping champagne (impressively still her first glass) and not partaking in discussion. For the past few minutes, her eyes had been focused darkly on her party and Mrs. Rosencranz. What in the hell could she be doing here from Baltimore? A nagging feeling stirred in the pit of her stomach, and she felt herself again overcome with jealousy atop her preempted dislike. Likely, her attendance was nothing more than a coincidence. The notion that her instructor had invited her to partake in the festivities was unlikely, but she knew well not to put it passed him.  
  
The evening was beginning to take a strange turn. Starling was itchy and uncomfortable and wished herself miles away. Fleetingly, she wondered if Barney's nausea was indeed influential by the power of suggestion.  
  
When she looked back to her companions, Dr. Lecter had located her. As soon as their eyes met, he proceeded to dismiss himself from Mrs. Rosencranz's divine company and started in her direction. With as anxious as she was to escape the ladies' conversation, Starling was irritated enough to simply walk away and ignore him. A group seemed to be gathering in the Rose Garden, and at the moment, it held more appeal.  
  
But for all her dignity, she knew she could not simply walk away, especially since he knew that she had seen him. It would be unspeakably rude.  
  
Or so she told herself.  
  
Whatever her eyes revealed, Dr. Lecter saw without object. He was not pleased. "Are you not enjoying yourself, Clarice?" he asked, taking a sip of wine that seemed to materialize in his hand. "You look a little pale."  
  
And she couldn't help it. That prompt was more than enough to force her façade aside, as though a tidal wave were waiting behind flooding gates. "What is Mrs. Rosencranz doing here?" she demanded sharply.  
  
"I haven't the faintest idea," he replied with a casual, innocent air, turning briefly to glance in the indicated direction. "She has her connections as well. I don't believe she expected us to be here. Last we spoke, I told her I was planning on taking you to an actual Embassy ball. This simply proved to be more convenient."  
  
"So you didn't invite her?"  
  
At that, Dr. Lecter's eyes darkened considerably, as though morally offended. "Shame on you, Clarice," he hissed in a manner that made her shiver in a way that was most unfamiliar. Rather than exciting, it shook her to her very core, and she trembled in something relative to fear. "You should know better than that."  
  
Immediately, she sunk into a pit of remorse, acknowledging the foolishness in assuming the doctor would do something with such obtuse malice. There were plenty of ways to make her uncomfortable without bringing an outside party into the matter. She opened her mouth to apologize. "I—"  
  
"Do you really believe I would intentionally make this evening any more awkward for you than it already is?"  
  
As if in answer, a person she vaguely recognized approached with a look of scandalous curiosity. "Doctor," he greeted as though they were old friends. "Would you mind introducing me to this dazzling young lady?"  
  
It was then that she placed him. Will Graham of Behavioral Science. At first shocked, she found herself more taken with the briefest instance of distaste that flashed behind Dr. Lecter's eyes. Never had she seen anything more genuine or fluid, but it was gone so quickly that she might have mistaken it for something else entire. Instead of answering, however, he glanced to Barney, who looked faint.  
  
Something clicked. Everyone, for whatever reason, was avoiding this introduction.  
  
A timely save. At that minute, the President and the First Lady entered: their presence commanding silence. Dr. Lecter gentlemanly maneuvered to Starling's side, steering her with force away from Will Graham.   
  
She had to wonder if the force was a reaction of provoked resent or in accent not to turn around.  
  
Even with her back to him, she could feel his bedazzled eyes on her in the ever-familiar scrutiny. It was true that they had never met formerly, but she had seen him occasionally at Quantico, going to and from various places. Back in the day.  
  
_He's trying to place me, _she thought. If anyone could, given limited resources, it was him. Ever since she came to Quantico, all she heard from Crawford, off other mundane topics, was the praise of Graham's efforts. She believed the legendary agent had even sat in on a class or two.  
  
_If he places me…_ she thought, but found herself unable to complete the notion. Was it more appropriate to be frightened of such recognition or to be dismayed should it not occur?  
  
What was suddenly so bad about being an FBI trainee? It was a respectable job.  
  
Perhaps Dr. Lecter's efforts were more for the mind sake of Barney's relentless paranoia. Enduring anxiety had the power to overwhelm one's senses. A hazarded glance at him assured her that his patience had not yet alleviated from her prior insinuation. With a sigh, Starling felt herself sink.   
  
As the President introduced the French Ambassador and directed his guests to the State Dining Room, she could not continue without a weak attempt at making amends. She drew in a breath and strained her neck at him, whispering genteelly, "What do you get when you cross a pilgrim with a democrat?"   
  
Cold silence was her answer, leering and brutal, and she shivered her contempt. Perhaps it was best not to speak unless first addressed.   
  
It wasn't until people began to flock in the indicated direction that he turned to her and replied lowly, "What, pray tell, would require such a combination?" Much to her comforted surprise, his tone was light and forbearing, eyes ablaze with sacrament.   
  
Warm relief flooded through her, and Starling emitted an audible huff of air, smiling as he smiled. "A god-fearing tax collector who gives thanks for what other people have."   
  
He chuckled mildly, hand caressing the small of her back in a gentle push toward the crowd. Granted from anyone else, it was almost a display of doting affection, and she found herself overwhelmed once more. This trend from one mindset to the other was getting ridiculous, but Starling was to the point of indifference. "Trite, Clarice," he hummed into her ear.   
  
"I thought it was best to stick to democratic jokes, all things considered."   
  
"Touché."  
  
The State Dining Room was perhaps the most remarkable atmospheric room she had seen yet, though maybe for the searing emotions and positive ambiance. However, her high was short-lived, a fleeting thought diminishing it swiftly. While the first, this was likely also the last time she would be granted such splendor on a silver platter. When, in her line of work, would she have the opportunity to visit places like this? Not simply the White House, but also the diners she had enjoyed over the past six months, even Boccaccio, where she was most uncomfortable. The opinion of her general acquaintance was to avoid places that exceeded ten dollars per plate, as well as liquor that not guarantee two shots followed by a face full of floor.   
  
Where was this leading her?  
  
Best to keep her mind on her surroundings. There was plenty of time to worry about the particulars later…  
  
A mahogany table was evidently their destination, surrounded by Queen Anne-style chairs. There was a plateau centerpiece bordered with standing bacchantes holding wreaths that supported candles. It included seven mirrored sections to act as the median. Three fruit baskets, propped by female figures, were displaying the loveliest flowers Starling had ever seen. Dr. Lecter whispered to her that the two rococo-revival candelabra dated to the Hayes Administration, and that the soft green and brown carpet was a reproduction of a Persian design from the 17th century. All that and more, there were three console tables against the walls, and silver-plated chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Above the mantel was a portrait of President Lincoln, and below it an inscription from a letter written by John Adams:  
  
_I pray Heaven to Bestow the Best of Blessings on THIS HOUSE and on All that shall hereafter Inhabit it. May none but honest and Wise Men ever rule this roof. _  
  
When granted the opportunity to read it up close, Starling snickered mildly but declined comment.  
  
Dr. Lecter was notably enjoying her reaction, though his eyes sparkled with intent as he neared her ear and whispered, briefly catching her off guard with more talk of politics. "Though neither party is without flaw. According to Quayle, Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child."  
  
Starling's teeth clamped hard on the inside of her cheek to keep laughter from escaping. "Don't forget, they also vow to defend and support their Republicans, regardless of personal beliefs," she added.  
  
"Hush," he whispered fleetingly, but his eyes were still dancing.  
  
Dinner was lovely, leisure and unrushed. Much to Starling's delight, they were seated nowhere near Mrs. Rosencranz or Will Graham. The last thing she needed was to be in the presence of those that caused her additional anxiety. Rather, she began to genuinely enjoy herself. While Dr. Lecter was involved in the conversation, occasionally averting to French when addressing the ambassador, she was completely content in acting as a silent observer.  
  
Still, despite this, Starling was disappointed to learn there was yet another part of the evening. After supper concluded, the President encouraged all of his guests to migrate to the East Room, which was, as she understood from Dr. Lecter's brief history lesson as they followed the others, the room used traditionally for the heart of entertainment. He promised they would not stay longer than necessary, but that it would be rude to be the first to leave.  
  
And the last person in the world to be rude to, other than the doctor himself, was assuredly the President of the United States.  
  
The quartet soon began again, playing selections from Handel's Water Music, as well as other notable pieces by Mozart, Haydn, Cambini, Boccherini, and Mendelssohn. Starling pleased herself when she could not only identify the composer, but the piece and time period as well. It served as a suitable mode of distraction. She was not typically an enthusiastic dancer, though the memory of her last experience was pleasant in that disconcerting fashion. Instead, she remained content, standing in the group of the same ladies that seemed to congregate together wherever they went. She was happy to locate Mrs. Rosencranz without a certain doctor for a partner. Their eyes met briefly, both wavering in general distaste.  
  
No sooner had she glanced away was Starling distracted by a man approaching. Will Graham, upon finding her alone, was finally free to speak with her. It didn't surprise her, but she was astringent with the dread of what he might have to say, what he might and might not see. With a polite smile as he stopped before her, Graham opened his mouth to introduce himself and was cut off abruptly by Dr. Lecter, who appeared from nowhere. He regarded the disgruntled agent as though he were nonexistent, flashing her a smile and reached for her hand.  
  
"Shall we, Clarice?" he asked smoothly, indicating the others dancing across the regal room. Her eyes flashed in fleeting anger, but she was unable to do anything but comply. With an apologetic smile to Graham, her eyes darkened and she was dragged away.  
  
It was only a few seconds before the raw irritation set in. If there was anything she hated, it was being left in the dark when something was obviously in the works. Especially, and most principally, when it included her.  
  
Consequently, Starling was able to ignore the fleeting sensation being whisked in his embrace, much to her satisfied revelation. The sooner she became accustomed to not swooning, the better. "I'm a little offended, Dr. Lecter," she said intrepidly, earning an arched glance.  
  
"Oh? Why is that?"  
  
"You seem to think I am ignorant of who exactly is here this evening. Do you really think I could be a student at Quantico under Jack Crawford and not know who Will Graham is?" she asked narrowly. "You must really believe me a simpleton. Why do you keep us from speaking?"  
  
Despite these accusations, he seemed amused, and had no want of refutation. This failed to surprise her. If the doctor had a motive, he similarly had no difficulty in sharing it within anyone that inquired, lest they were keenly involved. "To develop his curiosity, of course."  
  
"What?"  
  
Dr. Lecter grinned mischievously. "It works out rather well, I would say. Our good fortune to have a fellow agent in attendance tonight. I am sure you have deducted that he will know you instantly, regardless of former acquaintance, as a trainee, should you speak with him."  
  
She nodded. "It's a sort of radar we have."  
  
"Precisely. Thus, when he does speak with you—and he will before the dance is through—he will be particularly observant."  
  
At first it made no sense, but over the next few seconds, under his piercing stare, realization crept forward. With a defeated sigh, Starling looked down. "You want to see if he can tell what I am at all, to see how much progress we have attained."  
  
"Very good."  
  
She sighed. That was what she afraid of. Should Graham not recognize her, it meant the months were a success and the objective was obtained. But where did it leave her? Who was she if the notorious Will Graham could not identify her as a student? More over, did she even want it? The resuscitation of reality was imminent now, plain and in sight.  
  
Reality.   
  
A fleeting thought came back to haunt her, one she had upon leaving Ardelia Mapp, the last thing that crossed her mind as she headed for her car to go off and do this crazy thing. _Six months isn't forever. _  
  
How true. How insufficiently true.  
  
There was more comfort going into this deal than there was now that she was at the end. Life, the comfortable existence she had created for herself, was still there, waiting for her. This being was temporary, and for her experience in both worlds, she feared which she preferred.  
  
Though, Starling couldn't honestly say she preferred it because it was in her nature, or because she would soon lack access to its gates.  
  
She was speaking before she realized it. For whatever reason, tonight, the vital night, in the light of the last mile before freedom, she could not retain her voice. Starling cursed herself mildly, but in truthfulness, she didn't say much. Not much, but it was still enough. "Dr. Lecter, what happens after this?"  
  
There was no need in asking her to repeat the question. Gravity was detected instantly; she saw his eyes flicker with significance. However, he edged from the subject, manipulating her toward Graham without flinching in alteration. "We will discuss it when we return," he said simply, twirling her out of his arms and flashing an encouraging smile to the man, who eagerly took his place.  
  
Then he was gone—off to the corner to speak with Mrs. Gardiner and Barney, who looked faint to see her abandoned in the presence of one of her own.   
  
With all the apprehension she harbored for the afterward of the outing, the fear she possessed earlier when presented with the idea of having this man dissect and identify her was gone. Every time she received the opportunity, Starling's eyes focused on Dr. Lecter, who remained unmoved in watching her. It was weave, glance, weave, glance, as though watching a flicker show. Through a series of turns, she watched a waiter approach and hand him a glass of champagne, a passing conversation with the French Ambassador, and a hearty handshake from the President. Discussion with Graham was pleasant, even with her mind detached. At that moment, she didn't care what his conclusions were of her character, didn't pay mind to manners—relying on those that were now embedded into her system.   
  
And then the dance was over, as was this final test, this means to an end. Graham thanked and commended her, but she had no interest in attempting to decipher his now derived opinion. She wanted to find Dr. Lecter and ask to leave so they could continue their conversation. At the moment, nothing was more important.  
  
However, when she saw him again, Graham was at his side again, and they were chatting animatedly, looking at her. Aggravated but knowing there was nothing she could do, Starling busied herself by seizing a glass of wine off a passing tray. She felt fidgety but didn't care if it showed. After what seemed like an eternity, the discussion wrapped and Graham turned away, gave her a meaningful glance, then toddled off. And that was the end of it.  
  
Starling's heart skipped a beat and her eyes followed him for long seconds before glancing to his departed conversationalist. It didn't surprise her to find him already fixed on her eyes, nor to see amusement cackling behind his gaze. Inhaling deeply, she worked up her courage and approached, coaching herself under her breath. She was ready for this.  
  
Suddenly, she was back in high school, walking toward some nasty English teacher's desk as term papers were handed back. All the strain and sweat that went into a project riding on one single grade, the grade that would make or break her. The grade that determined if the panicking and the studying and the research and the practice valued the merit of an all-important judgment day.  
  
As she recounted the mildly traumatizing experience of twelfth year midterms, she stopped short in front of Dr. Lecter, eyes wide with expectancy. "Well?"  
  
Dr. Lecter grinned.  
  
"Well?"  
  
Dr. Lecter grinned.  
  
_"Well?" _  
  
"He did try very hard," he said at last, ambiguously. The maroon in his gaze was dancing. "And he was very confident. I suppose that credits a little recognition. However, when it came to pinpointing your profession, there was definitely something lacking." In deliberate torment, Dr. Lecter paused. Whatever it was had to be something greatly humorous. Agitation tore at her nerves, and just when she was convinced the only way to obtain the answer was to pounce and beat it out of him (with as much good as it would do), he exhaled slowly and continued. "Agent Graham commented particularly on your good fortune. It was his resolution that you were born into a prosperous family. Very prosperous. There was a hint of you that screamed boarding school, he said. He was most impressed with your courtesy, and commented that such mannerisms were rare to be seen in society today." He stopped again and smiled with seemingly malicious intent. "My dear, he said you were not made to work a day in your life, and likely would not. From your parent's house, to the sorority house, to your husband's house, there is a want for nothing more than to sit back and savor life without trying to keep up with it."  
  
And then time stood still. Confound in the utmost shock, she could not breathe, could not move, could not think. The music in the room seemed to silence, the twirling couples slowed to a near halt. It was over quickly, along with the sensation of every scraped knee she had doctored, every insulting comment she had endured, every gun she had fired, every tear she had shed over the heartless, wicked, brainless institution that drove her to this pivotal point. What was it for? Regardless of how long she was destined to live, Starling never thought she would see the day that someone call her anything but athletic, anything but a dedicated, hard, earnest worker. Anything but what she was.  
  
What was someone to feel when informed that her entire existence meant nothing?   
  
A success indeed. Going to Dr. Lecter had transformed her, but more over all, she had transformed herself. After all, had not Graham reported anything that was not in a sense true? Not the estimates on her background, of course, but the very same concerns and questions tormented her relentlessly for the past two weeks.   
  
So, here she was. The conclusive night. A successful report. The seeming end of a new beginning.   
  
That was all well and good, but offered little help.  
  
What was left for her now?  
  
  


* * * 


	12. After Much Ado...

Author's Note: To those of you who have not seen _My Fair Lady, _the end of this chapter is faithful to the movie, I promise! I'm not doing it just to be stubborn.   
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.   
  
Chapter Eleven   
  
The return home was bittersweet. While a very relieved Barney chatted animatedly in the back, reassuringly patting her shoulder several times in congratulation of the best performance to date, neither Starling nor Dr. Lecter said a word. The few glances she hazarded at him were inconclusive and never reciprocated. From leaving the White House, the high spirits he enjoyed had diminished. Not many victories came without retributions.  
  
Mrs. Pearce was waiting anxiously in the entry hall, eyes wide with expectation. For an instant upon entering, Starling felt a pang of regret that she hadn't asked the housekeeper to accompany them. Everyone here had played a crucial part in leading up to the evening's finale, and everyone deserved to partake.  
  
Of course, it would have been in extremely poor taste for the cleaning woman to tag along.   
  
"Absolutely fantastic!" Barney bellowed, merrily oblivious to the blatancy in which he was ignored. "An immense achievement!"  
  
Neither of the men noticed Mrs. Pearce, but Starling watched as the woman's face brightened in mutinous glee. Dr. Lecter deposited his coat on the stand beside the door and moved wordlessly into the parlor. She watched him until he disappeared into the darkness, unsurprised when the room did not illuminate. The doctor did not enjoy light. When she turned to back to the housekeeper, who was looking at her with expressive interest, she forced a smile and nodded.  
  
"It went very well," Starling relayed without enthusiasm, eyes darting back to the parlor.   
  
Barney laughed loudly and gave her an unknowingly harsh pat on the back that stole the wind from her body. "'Very well,' indeed! It was outstanding! Aww man, you should've seen her, Mrs. Pierce. The 'oohs' and 'ahhs'! People kept asking me who she was. You'd think they'd never seen a lady before. It was…" He trailed off thoughtfully, as though just realizing they were without Dr. Lecter's company. With bated breath, he looked to Starling, understanding without needing to ask that she knew where he was. Sighing, she nodded in direction.   
  
"Doc!" he said a minute later, taking off after him. "Hey, Doc!" She stood motionless, arms behind her back, and flinched a bit as a light sliced through the hall. "Doc, you gotta tell us the truth now. Weren't you a little bit nervous once or twice?"   
  
As always, Dr. Lecter's voice required no assistance in elevation. He could whisper and still be heard. "No, not for a second."  
  
Always eager to keep up with the conversation, Mrs. Pearce toddled after them. And Starling was left alone. Starling sighed once more, slowly removed the coat from her shoulders and resigned it next to the doctor's before joining the others.   
  
"Not during the whole evening?" Barney was saying.   
  
The doctor himself was lounged on the sofa, his eyes locking with hers immediately as she entered the room. While it was impossible for his friend or Mrs. Pearce to see, Starling clearly deciphered the supreme desire to avoid this conversation pulsing behind his gaze. The once-felt pride she might enjoy as a result of such insight was nonexistent; rather, his opinion was shared. Perhaps the more distasteful ending to the evening was a discussion about the unbeatable touch of success.   
  
"No," Dr. Lecter replied finally, eyes breaking from hers as he reclined ever so slightly. His voice carried an air of mastered casualness, a sense of falsified uncaring. "I felt like a bear in a cave, loafing about with nothing to do. You are right, Barney. It was an immense achievement." When he spoke again, his gaze captured hers once more, and she knew that his words were for no one else. "An immense achievement."  
  
"Absolutely fantastic!" Barney praised. With a huff, Starling shook her head and looked away, eyes fixing on the vase sitting on the nearby shelf. While she was at times grateful for the man's loudness, it did become tiresome to think that an entire six months had been spent in his company without anyone in the household tuning in to the searing tension between the instructor and his pupil.   
  
Unless, of course, she was flattering herself. But Starling knew that could not be the case.  
  
"I was surprised to see Mrs. Rosencranz there," Barney said, taking a seat neighboring the doctor's. "But it was nice to have a familiar face in a room full of such political stiffs. Do you think she's going back to Baltimore tonight?"  
  
Dr. Lecter shook his head. "No. She relayed to me her friends' desires to partake in the tours around town. I believe they are staying at the Pennsylvania House throughout the rest of this week." This was announced without so much as a glance in her direction, though Starling didn't care. The appointments of Mrs. Rosencranz no longer worried her, her own esteem convinced of the doctor's steady indifference, regardless of what the woman felt for him now.  
  
Besides, there were larger issues to tackle—more noteworthy things to worry about.   
  
"I must have aged a year tonight," Barney continued, this time to Mrs. Pearce—who was all ears. "I thought I was going to die of anxiety. There was not one single moment of peace." He broke, then added thoughtfully: "Of course, it was the White House." Then, his eyes shining with new admiration, he looked to Dr. Lecter and smiled. "Now I can go to bed without dreading tomorrow. I'm so glad that's all over. Aren't you?"  
  
There was no immediate reply, the doctor's attentions more seriously occupied. Dr. Lecter was one never to hide where his motives lay, but while she returned his gaze forcefully, she reflected the same ambiguity that was wearing her tolerance away, eating at her nerves. When he finally looked away from her, he smiled dimly and nodded in concurrence. "Yes. Quite glad."  
  
Barney went on without hearing him. "You did it, Doc. You said that you would do it, and you did! Six months ago, it seemed impossible. I thought one of you would get bored and stop. But no. You did it."  
  
Dr. Lecter shook his head and sturdily held up a hand to silence him. "That is not necessary, Barney. Besides, you are overlooking the key player. None of this would have been possible without Clarice's cooperation."  
  
"Yeah!" he agreed readily. "Good God, Ms. Starling. I'll never know how you put up with it all, but I commend you! What a success!"  
  
She smiled without feeling. "It was nothing. Really nothing." With a sigh, she turned back to the vase, adamant.   
  
"I suggest we retire," Dr. Lecter said suddenly, bounding to his feet. "It has been a very long day. I am sure that you are exhausted, Barney. All that mindless worrying you did had to have some adverse affect on your nerves."  
  
He nodded and started for the door. "I am tired, but I don't know how I'm going to sleep a wink tonight. Good night, Mrs. Pearce. Good night, Ms. Starling."  
  
No one moved or said a word until his boisterous footsteps no longer thundered across the floorboards above.  
  
"I better be getting along, myself," the housekeeper said. "I do hope you don't mind my staying, Dr. Lecter, but I couldn't go home without knowing how things went tonight. I would've—"  
  
Dismissively, he nodded his acceptance. "Perfectly fine, Mrs. Pearce."  
  
"Yes, I appreciate it," Starling agreed, though her eyes had not yet moved from the vase. "Thank you very much for everything."  
  
"You're welcome, my dear."  
  
She felt Dr. Lecter move rather than saw it, his voice gently offering to show the woman out. It seemed hurried, as though he was anxious to see her alone, but she didn't move. Not until the front door closed and the air around her fell silent. When she turned around, he was in the doorway, watching her like a hawk. For once, she failed to quiver under his hard gaze, instead turning fully to face him.   
  
A long minute ticked by.  
  
"Well," he said finally, looking down. "Would you mind leaving a note for Mrs. Pearce requesting coffee in the morning instead of tea?"  
  
"Certainly," she replied, voice quick and stable, though she felt she would crumple at any time. "I'll leave it in the kitchen."  
  
"Thank you." Dr. Lecter's eyes traveled upward slowly, capturing her gaze once more. Thick silence engulfed them again, and as she thought he might speak, he did not. Instead, he turned and walked mutely out of the room, switched off the hall light, and traveled upstairs.   
  
A part of her left with him—an essential portion of her psyche. She watched until she could see him no longer before turning her eyes to the room that she had spent months perfecting herself in. The lamp that Barney had activated began to glow intrusively so she switched it off, allowing herself to be consumed by the dark stillness of the parlor. It was like her high school graduation all over again, knowing it was the last time to walk the halls as a student, knowing the dreaded real world crowded outside, waiting to take her into its harmful embrace. Only now she had tasted that life, had experienced that hurt, the misconception, the disappointments. Deceit and corruption waited outside these walls, the life she told herself she wanted over and over was still there. There with its Jack Crawfords and Paul Krendlers and Buffalo Bills. There with its meaningless sweat and blood and tears.   
  
But Starling correspondingly understood that it was impossible to remain here. Not with the everlasting silence between herself and Dr. Lecter. Not with the millions of things she wished to say, reserved only by fear of reaction. They fought for power too often to confront the more vulnerable side of life.  
  
Left in the darkness, her façade crumpled. Starling dropped with a pained gasp to the floor and burst into tears. At first minimal whimpers, controlled even now as she felt the last bit of restraint melting away, her cries grew, breaking over the final barriers of her self-discipline. And then there was no desire of control, no need to school herself. Her body craved a good hard cry, having been deprived since her father died. Long ago, Starling scolded herself that tears were useless, making nothing better and everything worse, and resorted never to shed them again. Now she couldn't help it, and while such lack of constraint concerned her, there was similarly nothing she could do to calm herself.   
  
So it was over.   
  
When at last her sobbing subsided, Starling reached for the arm of the sofa and pulled herself to her feet. She wiped her eyes angrily, taking a good bit of foundation and powder with her, staining her black gloves. With a furious yank, they came off her arms and were consigned forcefully to the ground. That was something that had yet to change; despite how much of a lady she had become, Starling would never understand the necessity to make one's face resemble a clown's. She was modest with her accessories, but never overexerted herself to look as others thought she should look.   
  
A throaty sound escaped her throat, halfway between a gasp and a growl. Starling threw her arms up in defeat and decided that lingering here wasteful. There was nothing she could do about it now, and little use came out of reflecting on their situation as though neither had anticipated its arrival. When she reached the doorway, though, she recalled Dr. Lecter's request to leave the note for Mrs. Pearce and retreated reluctantly to his desk. She stopped short in front of the piano upon noticing the half-consumed port that sat atop and eagerly reached for it, poured a glass and downed it in one gulp. Wine had never before gone to her head, and even while the port was nothing compared to a shot of Tequila, it had been many months since she drank so quickly, thus could not help the wave of dizziness that crashed over her. However, she maintained her balance, knowing it was more in credit to fatigue and confusion.   
  
Who wouldn't be tired after six months of such continual disorder?  
  
When the head rush dissipated, she reached for the port again, poured, and paused just before the glass reached her lips in low realization of what she was becoming. If anything, any man to cause such disturbance in her world was simply not worth the effort. Jerking her hand away furiously, she emitted a perceptible growl and threw the glass across the room, eyes following the shards as it crashed in a splash of bloodlike liquid and landed haphazardly on the carpet.  
  
And then the tantrum, minor as it was, ended. Heavy breaths heaved from her chest, weakening her knees and coaxing her slowly to the ground. There she sat for what felt like forever, holding back further tears as her body broke into tremors. So detached was she that she didn't hear anyone descending down the stairs, barely noticed the shadow cascading inward from the newly relit hallway, or the familiar feeling of observation she suffered when in his presence.   
  
"Clarice…" Dr. Lecter said softly. Starling froze but did not gasp, finding her strength after a few seconds' lapse and turning to face him unashamedly. A few weeks ago she might have felt apprehension, but now she did not care. It was fruitless hiding from him, even if she knew he would not like what he would see.   
  
Indeed, she could tell he was most seriously displeased. His eyes were alight with concern, his hands resigned to his pockets, as though needing to restrain himself. She felt her skin prickle with expected scrutiny, her own gaze afire, quaky but unwilling to yield. When he saw that she would not answer him, he took a step forward. "What is the matter?"  
  
At that, her lip began to quiver and she sniffed. "Nothing of consequence, I assure you."  
  
His eyes flashed in disapproval. "Something is obviously wrong if you think such an elusive answer will satisfy me," he berated sternly, taking another step forward. "Tell me. Now."  
  
Such a command was futile and they both knew it. She reveled in the difference she saw escalating behind his eyes as she steadfastly voiced her refusal. "No." It felt bizarre to brusquely reject him, peculiar in a liberating fashion.   
  
"You do not complain of your treatment tonight? Has anyone behaved badly toward you? Barney, Mrs. Pearce?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Myself?"   
  
She heard the challenge in his voice. "No. I'm sorry I woke you, Doctor, but I must have my solitude this evening. It has been a long day, and—"  
  
"I would not keep you," Dr. Lecter replied gently.   
  
"So why do you?" She took several steps forward in attempt to move passed him. Stubbornly, he paced with her, blocking her escape. Such a gesture would seem playful in any other context, but she knew better. With slow persistence, she raised her eyes to his once more, surprised at their sudden proximity, and resolutely demanded, "Let me pass."  
  
"Not until you tell me what provoked such a paroxysm."  
  
Starling sighed emphatically, stepping backward by instinct as her arms crossed. Their eyes battled to little avail, the room growing heavy, either with their breaths or the tension that sparked to life whenever they shared a long look, or were near each other at all. As infuriating as it was, she saw clearly that she was not going anywhere without a truthful explanation. He would know if she lied.   
  
So why not tell him? This was their last night together, and obviously something was occupying mind, or he would not have heard a wine glass shatter from the floor above while concealed behind a closed door.   
  
It felt weird trying to put six months of torment into words. Starling's mind boggled and she didn't feel very articulate. At last, her pretense fell and she stopped trying to think, her head dropping as she caressed her forehead. "Honestly, Dr. Lecter, if you don't know by now…"  
  
"Know what?" he asked unfailingly.   
  
In an upset flash, she looked up to him again; hurt flashing behind her eyes, but only briefly. He had obtained his objective; holding her gaze once more. "I don't think I've been living under a misapprehension," she snapped a minute later, infuriated that he would dare toy with her under such circumstances. "Don't insult me by playing dumb."  
  
"I have no desire to insult you, Clarice."  
  
"But you do anyway!" Starling turned away at last, refusing to gratify him, if her eyes were his purpose. "How you do expect me to talk to you if you insist on pretending that…" And then she could not go on, her voice failing her. Again, her head came forward and she had to bite her tongue to keep tears from following.  
  
Behind, she heard him stir significantly. "I will not ask again," he said determinately. "What is the matter?"  
  
"No, nothing is the matter with you. I won your bet for you, didn't I? That's enough for you. It's what happens to me from here that doesn't matter. At least you and Barney seem to think so." She turned again, uncaring if she cried. What was the use?   
  
The silence that followed seemed to stretch for hours, and for the second time that evening, she found herself trapped under his inflamed glare. However, she refused to falter, refused to waver and implore for forgiveness. It was beyond that. When he saw this, Dr. Lecter's eyes flickered meaningfully. "How could you conceive such a notion? You should know better—"  
  
"Well, I obviously _don't _know better, Doctor," she retorted angrily. "Stop telling me what I should know. I'm under no obligation to _know _anything anymore. It doesn't make a bit of difference. Your bet is over and you've won. All is right with the world. There is no reason for _you _to worry."  
  
"Clarice—"  
  
"Oh God!" Starling flashed around again, her hands shooting to her face. "What's to become of me?"  
  
"I thought we had this established months ago," Dr. Lecter retorted cautiously, taking an audible step forward. "You are free to do as you wish." His voice seemed casual enough but it was covering something. That much was detectable with his passed on teachings of insight. She doubted he had anticipated it to ever be used on himself.  
  
"But what am I fit for? What have you made me fit for?" Starling fought the temptation to turn around again, her hands coming to rest on the back of the sofa. "I'm no lady, that's for sure. Despite what Will Graham or Barney or Mrs. Pearce or you might say, I still am no lady. I couldn't make it out there in a world such as this based on what you've taught me. It takes a lifetime of practice for that. I don't want it, either. But I'm in poor condition for even the FBI now. Not only in what you've taught me, what I've learned and what I see now…but I'm not even in shape. I've neglected running in the mornings for months. I don't have a conclusion on the Buffalo Bill file…I don't even _want _one anymore!" At last, the lure was too strong and she whirled to face him again, to gauge his expression. "Don't insult my intelligence by pretending this means nothing to you."  
  
To what she referred might have seemed uncertain to anyone else, but for months they had spoken in cryptic messages. Starling was surprised when he let her see the shudder of concede her words provoked, but maintained her ground, forever unmoved.  
  
Another lengthy silence. Dr. Lecter studied her copiously, his eyes sparkling with connotation. When at last he sighed and looked down, she felt a surge of relief, and knew this masquerade of ignorance was over.   
  
"We have spent much time together, Clarice," he said softly. "I know it is ineffective to deny what has become of it, both in your lessons and between us. And my, how I have fought it. With ever essence of my being, I have fought it." And that was as much of any confession that she was to get from him. Dr. Lecter let out a breath and took a seat, hands folded and eyes growing distant, as though submerging into some arena of serious contemplation.  
  
With as much triumph that soared to finally have her answer, to know her own feelings had not been in vain, Starling had little time to revel. She wanted more, needed it, craved it. The profession was merely spoken words; it confirmed nothing of the future.   
  
"So what now?" she asked inconclusively. The incentive was upon her to claim the seat next to him, but she resisted.  
  
"You do not know how you have tortured me," he murmured, more to himself, though it caused a shiver to ripple down her spine. The idea that she could torture anyone, let alone this man, was neatly preposterous, but she did not doubt him.   
  
"What now?"   
  
"I cannot say."  
  
"Because you don't want to or because you don't know?" She sat in the chair across from him, eyes falling to her clasped hands.  
  
"You do realize," he continued, as though he had not heard her, "that the best thing for you would be to leave tomorrow, despite what has passed tonight."  
  
"Why? Why is _that _the best thing for me? Who are you to decide what is best for me?"   
  
"I am an knowledgeable man, Clarice," Dr. Lecter said, finally acknowledging that he knew she was still there, sitting in front of him. "Enough to know that what has passed here cannot end well. You have been under my supervision for six months, seeing very little of the outside world, until these past few weeks. Neither of us has any way of determining whether these…fears you relate are the product of geniality or cabin fever."   
  
Starling blinked incredulously. "Cabin fever? You're suggesting I—"  
  
"I see the diagnoses of my own conclusion." He stood once more. "But I will not affront you by pretending that I want you to leave. Despite all my sense and logic, in knowing it is better for both of us—"  
  
"Why do you insist on making decisions for me?"  
  
"What sort of life do you think you would have here, Clarice?"  
  
"Have I said that I want to stay here?"  
  
Dr. Lecter paused, grinning slightly. "No. You do not need to. We both suffer too much pride to ever confront ourselves. I believe these feelings you have related might have engendered from being here too long. Consider it logically. What you would be giving up. What you would eventually crave. I could not keep you shut up here forever. You have become restless in these past few months alone. That would not be fair to you." He let out a breath. "And I could not share you with the FBI. Such an institution excludes the need for a conventional social life."  
  
"Doctor—"  
  
"You would grow to resent me, Clarice."  
  
"I can't believe you're blaming my feelings on cabin fever and acting like yours are natural and just," she snapped furiously. "Why shouldn't my own be as natural as yours?"   
  
To that he had no reply. He looked to her thoughtfully and stood.   
  
"Or is it you who resents me?" she continued a muffled minute later, her courage growing, even if her body could not subside its tremors.  
  
"Could you forgive me of robbing you of your youth?" he asked shortly. "Not tonight, Clarice, or tomorrow. Perhaps not for many nights to come. But the day will arrive when you awake, look in the mirror and reflect on the life you could have had. The life denied to you."  
  
Fleetingly, Starling tried to picture herself down the road a few years, but the attempt was futile. Standing here without knowing which path—if any—was open to her, blocked her senses. The more rational tugging at her awareness forewarned that nothing ever ends as it should, and that she should learn, especially after everything, not to expect so much of life.   
  
Tiresome cases and leering looks from the men that claimed to be her superiors at Quantico, graduation a year late. Impending rumors, stories, and allegations. Was this the dreamy path she had imagined for herself? When she arrived six months ago, it hadn't occurred to her that no matter how much she improved that her absence alone would speak against her and set the stage for future failings.   
  
"I'm so tired of doing what is expected of me!" Starling cried at last, releasing the brewing storm. "That's all I've done all my life. I'm tired of having my decisions made for me and _me _just standing there and letting it happen. I'm tired of being bullied into thinking there is only _one _choice left in the great-goddamn-scheme of things. I'm not a child, Dr. Lecter. If there's anyone to resent, let it be myself for such idle foolishness and little girl dreams. I don't go around looking for people to blame if I know it's my fault."  
  
"In such case, I must caution you," he replied simply. "You owe it to yourself to taste the life you would miss."  
  
"How can I go back empty-handed?"  
  
Dr. Lecter's brows perked. "Buffalo Bill. Yesss…we aren't quite finished with that, are we? Do you have any conclusions?"  
  
"Just that you've confused the hell out of me with that thing."  
  
"Where is the file?"  
  
She had left it on his desk earlier that evening, before the final project commenced. Wordlessly, Starling brushed passed him to retrieve it, flipping open to the last page she had marked on.  
  
_COVET-EVERYDAY-BELVEDERE???-COVETAGAIN?-SEW-????? _  
  
"This is all the conclusion I have," she said, handing it to him as he flipped the lamp on.  
  
The light was intrusive and hurt her eyes.  
  
"Mmm," Dr. Lecter murmured dubiously. "You have worked yourself into a crossword puzzle. Look here, Clarice." With a quaky breath, she took post next to him, leering uncomfortably over his shoulder. His finger traced her wording, starting at _SEW. _"You caught that," he said admirably. "I wasn't sure. Tell me, how are his victims found?"  
  
"In random order."  
  
"Why? What has made them random?"  
  
"The first girl," she said, aching to flip to the front of the case to the page that held her information. "Fredricka Bimmel. Was weighted—"  
  
"Weighted down. Yes." He looked to her expectantly, his breath fanning her face.   
  
It was the sort of realization that dawned on someone only in the middle of the night. Starling felt heavy and lethargic from crying and the pains of such conversations, but her gasp of astonished realization banished it all away. "Oh God!" she cried, snatching the file from his grasp. Then she couldn't speak, her eyes shining with intent and understanding, her hand quaking for the need of a pen. And she fled his side, returning to the desk to record her discovery.   
  
"He's in Belvedere, then. He saw her every day," she said hurriedly, a look of exasperated determination tackling her expression as her frenzy increased. "God, this is illegible. I won't be able to make it out in the morning."  
  
"Do you understand, then?"  
  
She paused in her writing and looked up. "No."  
  
"What consistency remains through all the victims?"  
  
Starling bit her lip in thought, fishing her facts and everything she had gathered on the case, prior and up to coming here. Her mind jumbled. "We found a moth in a girl's mouth down in West Virginia. Since then, we've found one in—"  
  
Dr. Lecter shook his head dismissively. "That is part of it. The significance of the moth is change. Caterpillar into chrysalis and thence into beauty. Think, Clarice. Refer to your other clues. You are very close to the way you are going to catch him. What other link do these victims have in common?"  
  
Starling's breath regulated as she tried to concentrate, her eyes glued to the wrinkled page before her. _SEW. He told me he wasn't sure that I would catch onto that one. But I did. I— _  
  
"They're all big," she said at last, looking upward with a second epiphany.   
  
"Roomy," he agreed, stepping forward.  
  
"And he starves them for a week. All skinning is post-mortem."  
  
"Very good. So you see, Clarice, he is not a sadist after all."   
  
No. She didn't agree with that. What human could skin another and not be called a sadist? By the books…but _life is too slippery for books. _"Then what is he?"  
  
"He _is _a caterpillar," Dr. Lecter replied simply. "Or he wants to be. He wants the change as they do. However, for whatever reason, most likely severe childhood disturbances associated with violence, he is out of the means by which others of his kind approach the method of change in this society. He has been rejected, you see, but he has not let that defeat his intention. Billy is most determined to be a woman."   
  
More realization dawned on her, spreading nether her features as her eyes shined into his, then back to the file again, hand busy with additional notes. During this, the doctor was silent, though she felt his gaze unmoving on her. Only when she stopped writing and looked up to him expectantly did he continue.  
  
"He is not a real transsexual, Clarice. But he thinks he is, he tries to be. I'd expect he has tried to be several things." Dr. Lecter turned away. "He is not a born killer. He was made one through years of systematic abuse." Another pause. "But this is irrelevant, now. You have your town; you have motive; you have everything you need to find him."  
  
"This is not a game of _Clue, _Doctor."  
  
"Of course it is not."  
  
"I need to get this to Jack Crawford right away."  
  
"Of course you do."  
  
At that, she paused, her eyes lingering in his, alight with new understanding.   
  
"You see then," Dr. Lecter continued a dismissive minute later. "Why it is that you must go back?"  
  
"Only partially," Starling replied, setting the case file on the desk again. "I want to end this case, yes. There is no denying that. I want it so bad it hurts. But as for the rest…you've confused me too much. My _time _here has confused me. I knew things were bad, and for whatever reason, I thought a badge and a diploma would make a difference. I'm not so naïve now."  
  
"You have powerful enemies," the doctor acknowledged. "This Paul Krendler that you have on more than one occasion, for instance."  
  
The very sound of his name made her gnash her teeth. "I wanted it so badly," she said with a defeated sigh, sitting lightly on the edge of the desk, eyes staring fixatedly at her shoes. It was then that she realized she was still in her evening attire, make-up smeared from her drying tears, and that the conclusion of this conversation would very likely decide her future. She trembled and tried not to think about it. "Apart of me still wants it. But I _know _things now. I know what would happen, what would become of it. I know things now that I wouldn't have known for years, if it weren't for you."  
  
"Why? Why did you want it so badly?"  
  
"I don't know." That was a lie. He would see through it immediately.  
  
Dr. Lecter's look was harsh and diligent. "Because of your father, the night watchman. You have achieved things already in life that he could not. You have a notion in you that is unable to sit still if you know someone is hurt, or going to be hurt." His gaze intensified, and Starling felt herself shrink, as though caught in the middle of a lie. Uncomfortably, she looked to the door, wondering how far she could make it before he asked the inevitable question.   
  
"Why?"  
  
It was the incident that she had never told anyone, the happening that had haunted her throughout the adult existence. Her breath began to constrict and her chest tightened merely at the thought. The ceiling dissolved into a cold Montana sky, her surroundings melted into the grass and gravel under her feet. And she was running away, far away with Hannah at her side, lambs wailing their relentless cry behind her.   
  
But there was no going back.  
  
So enveloped was she in these recollections that Starling didn't realize she had begun speaking until she had to pause for breath. However much she thought it might, talking of this childhood event that had somehow traumatized her more than her father's death wasn't as difficult as she originally anticipated. Rather, it seemed locked up, confined, screaming to be released, to have someone else bear or at least recognize its burden. Her eyes were locked on the ground, her arms protectively wrapping around her torso. When there was no more to tell, Starling licked her lips and looked up, half expecting Dr. Lecter to have disappeared. He said nothing, let her have her moment to collect herself, then turned and paced to the other side of the room.  
  
It seemed years had passed since they arrived home that evening, since she stood in the East Room of the White House, since she heard the words that initiated this conversation. Furthermore, she could not see the sun rising in the morning; see a plausible future beyond these tidings. To Starling, the world began and ended in this room. The released burden of so many confessions, of wants and denials, of things they could not change, of things they would not change otherwise.  
  
"That is one area I never brushed," Dr. Lecter said softly, his back still to her. "Your rage, Clarice. You keep it bottled up protectively, lashing out on the first convenient prey. Anyone who will give you a just motive. I saw it the night we met." That seemed ages ago. "I should have focused on assisting you to manage it a bit, so it wouldn't hurt you so deeply."  
  
For whatever reason, that thought didn't rest well with her. While her rage had handicapped her in many ways, it similarly acted as the fuel to start her day, that which pumped through her system like adrenaline. There were things she could have handled better, for sure, but she wouldn't for the world. Rage kept outsiders closed off, admitting those who truly wanted to know her, wanted to make any connection at all. Starling's eyes darkened at the insinuation.   
  
"I don't _want _to manage my rage!" she hissed, the venom in her voice provoking Dr. Lecter to face her, victorious surprise caught in his eyes. "Between you and Quantico, rage is all I have!"  
  
And then she crumpled, unable to support herself any longer. Starling took a few staggering steps away from the desk as the tears came, rekindled and hot, burning skids down her cheeks. A few at first before the sobs followed. Any notion of embarrassment to be crying in front of this man was dismissed. There was no reason to feel shame. What was done was done, mostly at his tidings.  
  
Then he was behind her, twirling her to face him as his arms came around her, comforting and protective. A dam had been crossed, broken through, a pivotal final barrier. Dr. Lecter soothingly encouraged her head to his shoulder, caressing her in attempt to calm her down. It felt wonderful to be held, offered what little reassurance he had to give. The outburst, minor as it was, began to subside, detached tears cascading down her face, moistening the white of his dress-shirt.   
  
When all was still again, she was certain he would let her go, but he did not. For what seemed like forever they remained like that, caught in each other's embrace. Starling paced her breathing, wondering what sort of battles he was fighting, what ever might be going through his mind. She didn't care, as long has he refrained from pulling her away. If this was all they were to have, so be it. Just as long as it lasted until morning.  
  
As the thought escaped her and wished itself into the void, she felt him stir. At her ear at first, whispering her name with some resignation. To her, it sounded like surrender, and rang sweetly through her system until he dipped his head. Then she felt his lips on her, stroking her shoulder with light, feathery touches. Starling tensed, her hold instinctively drawing tighter, clutching him to her to prevent his escaping. The doctor's caresses became firmer, embellishing teeth and tongue, as though no longer unable to stop himself. His arms tautened their embrace, his mouth moving up her neck until finally capturing her lips. Another wave crashed, though the kiss was initially soft and exploratory, it gained zeal at escaping such lengthy suppression. The feel of his lips against hers swiftly drained her of all fortitude, all resolve, anything that allowed her to do anything but kiss him back. When his tongue invaded her mouth, she swallowed a whimper, wondering distantly how she came to be here in the first place. It all seemed so long ago.   
  
It was over just as quickly, his hands retracting to her wrists, removing them from behind his neck as his warmth moved away. Starling's eyes shot open, breath escaping her harshly. Dr. Lecter was watching her closely, though his gaze was indeterminable.   
  
Her eyes flickered in recognition.   
  
"I have been a selfish being all my life," the doctor said anticlimactically. "This has been very clumsy of me. I cannot do this to you."  
  
_To me, or cannot let it happen to yourself? _The miserable thought rose without word of warning, and as much as she tried, she could not banish it away. A pang took command of her body, shuddering visibly through her. She could not meet his eyes then, could not gauge the struggle that shot behind his gaze in nearly uncontained restraint that kept his control from breaking and taking her into his arms again. But despite it all, despite her firm resolve, she understood. Even now, doubts plagued her mind. She had to convince herself…  
  
Such was ineffective.   
  
"You're right," she agreed, voice low and barely audible. "There can be no want of feeling between the likes of you and the likes of me."  
  
Her words seemed to scorn him, his eyes ablaze when she looked up. However, he offered no rebuttal. Instead, emitting a breath, he turned to walk away.  
  
Something sparked within her, an earlier memory. She could not say why she spoke up, perhaps to keep him here another instant, to keep the morning from taking this away from her. When her lips parted to speak, she was startled to find her voice quaking, even as it stood on fortitude. "What does it mean?"  
  
Dr. Lecter paused soundly but did not face her. "Pardon?"  
  
"Vae, puto deus fio. You promised you would tell me."  
  
There was another lengthy pause as he slowly turned to capture her eyes in heartbreaking conclusion. Silence flickered and the walls seemed to pulse, but she ignored it all, focusing severely on him. At last, he exhaled and smiled grimly. "It means, 'Oh dear. I believe I am turning into a god.' The final words of Vespasian. You see, Roman emperors were made into deities upon death. At your arm, Clarice, such can be said faithfully. You have the power to make any man feel like a god." Then, without waiting to catch her expression, he turned once more and silently excused himself.  
  
Something significant within her stirred, eyes flooding with more tears that she would not allow herself to shed. But Starling understood finally, and knew he would not be coming back.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
It was with little resignation that Starling concluded she could not remain under this roof another uncompensated night. Not with what had passed, not with what she had in her possession. The bags she had brought with her were inadequate now, overcrowded with everything that had had been given to her along with the belongings she initially arrived with. While she had no desire to leave the things that Dr. Lecter bought her over her stay, she suspected it would hurt him more to see his gifts left behind.   
  
At the moment, that was certainly more appealing, but regardless, she took with her as much as she could.   
  
There was little time to consider her surroundings as she would like to. Starling was determined to be gone before the first rays of light announced the new day. It was 4:00 AM by the time she was ready to walk out the doors, presumably forever. As much as she wanted to stay and reflect, she knew she had to swallow her pride and bid her life here adieu.   
  
However, as she was nearing the front door, a set of booming footsteps came thundering down the staircase, loud enough to betray the man's identity and ease her nerves. Even still, Starling had no desire for Barney to see her like this. In the midst of her departure preparations, she had yet to remove her tear-stained make-up. If anything, she did not want to drag him into this mess.  
  
Too late. Before she could break for the door, Barney flicked on the hall light and took her unadjusted eyes by surprise. Hand shooting immediately to shield her line of vision, she had little time to gather herself.   
  
"Ms. Starling!" he exclaimed in surprise. Weakly, she forced her eyes open. Barney's gaze was intent on her uncomely appearance and the bags by her feet. "What are you doing?"   
  
There was no use in hiding her intention. Not even dear, sweet, gullible Barney would believe a falsified conjecture with so much evidence suggesting an alternative. With a sigh, her hand dropped uselessly to her side. "Would you switch that light off?" Once gratified, she continued. "I'm leaving, Barney…and I'm not coming back."  
  
She was grateful that she could not see his eyes, the image her mind produced enough for her vivid imagination. "What?! Why?"  
  
"I…I can't say. The bet is over…I need to leave." Unable to tolerate it anymore, she turned, grasping her bags and making a final move for the door. For a second, Barney seemed to accept this, not speaking or making any attempt to stop her procession.  
  
However, as she reached for the knob, he spoke up, his voice steady and surprisingly sympathetic. "It's Dr. Lecter, isn't it?"  
  
Starling froze promptly, her heart catching in her throat. Neither moved nor spoke. There was no need to. When finally she felt she could control her motor functions, she turned slowly to nod her acknowledgement. "It is. We…we…"  
  
"Ms. Starling, don't think me completely ignorant of what's been going on," Barney retorted, a small smile that refused to hide in the darkness spreading across his face. "Anyone who has seen you two together can tell there's something there. Mrs. Rosencranz and I were talking about it just—"  
  
Her eye widened. "But why—"  
  
"It wasn't any of my business." Barney sighed, shaking his massive head, casting his eyes downward. "I suppose it came out tonight? It felt like a volcano about to erupt in here."  
  
With a weak smile, she nodded. "Yes…everything came out. Dr. Lecter…I think he thinks I'm not good enough for him or something. He's told me that—"  
  
"I don't think that's it at all," he replied with quick astonishment, almost defensively, as though the accusation was aimed at him. "Ms. Starling, if anything, I think it's because he's not used to...well, think about it. When before has something like…he's a pretty old guy to be experiencing—"  
  
"There's no need to preserve my opinion of him, Barney, or to explain. I understand completely."  
  
"No, I don't think you do." Aggressively, he took a step forward, grasping her arm. "All more besides…you're as unsure of this as you should be. You have no idea what you've done to him, have you? I've known him for years…but over these past six months I've seen changes in him that I can't…" With a sigh, lacking the poetic touch that his friend possessed, there was no more he could say without being perfectly blunt. "Clarice, tu amat." She blinked, impressed, and he chuckled lightly. "You learn a lot just by listening. He loves you, Clarice, and I think it's scared him shitless. Anyone can see it."  
  
The tears she promised herself she would not shed flooded her eyes again. Starling forcefully bit her lip, shaking her head to deny entrance for the wealth of emotions that demanded acknowledgement. Emitting a breath of resolution, she tugged her arm free of his grasp and stepped back again, the door hard at her shoulders.  
  
"If he loves me, he will find me," she replied, aware of the pit in her stomach that seemed to expand with every second. "If he doesn't, that is his misfortune."  
  
And before Barney could collect his breath for a refutation, she turned and opened the door, dragging her bags along with her. When she looked up again, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Don't blame yourself," she said shortly. "And it's not necessary to tell Dr. Lecter that you spoke with me tonight."  
  
"He'll know anyway," Barney retorted laboriously.   
  
His eyes were what she last she saw, large and sad, fighting something distant. It was that and then the slam of the door, the address number staring her blankly in the face. For a long minute, she stayed there, resisting the temptation to rest her head on the frame and release her tears. But no, it was time to move on.   
  
Early morning danced around her. The sign of a new day.  
  
  


* * * 


	13. Goodbye Is Such A Hard Thing to Say

Author's Note: The beginning of this might seem a little odd…but you can again thank _My Fair Lady _for that. Heh heh.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.   
  
Chapter Twelve   
  
In any circumstance, 'goodbye' is always the hardest thing to say. Minutes stilled between the place she had grown to love as home and the pavement that would lead her away. Night threatened to melt into morning. Starling paced herself gradually, as though willing someone to yet erupt from the doors and drag her back inside. But no—she knew better. Barney respected the validity of her word, and it would be hours before Dr. Lecter stirred from his chamber.  
  
She wished spitefully on an anticlimactic note that it had taken him an uncharacteristically long time to both find and remain in peaceful slumber.   
  
As courageous as she felt adopting a reaction that resembled leaving home again, Starling could not ignore the trembles of trepidation that quaked through her system. She understood how imperative it was to get as far away as possible, but the part of her that screamed vindication ached to watch the doctor receive exactly what he claimed he wanted.  
  
At times such as these, it became essential to summon the words and reassurances of modern day philosophers, such as Joni Mitchell and John Lennon. She realized in frustration that the one CD she had failed to pack was the ever-important Beatles album she had arrived with.   
  
_Miserable is the man who gets exactly what he asked for, _Mapp had said one particularly drunken evening. She chose to dismiss that at the time, the conversation had revolved around a man who was rolling on the floor, having been kicked resolutely where men particularly do not like being kicked. With as irritated as she was still at her friend's vacillatingly true accusations, that thought offered a pang of placid comfort.  
  
Heaving a sigh, Starling resigned and forced herself away. The only place she knew to go was her old duplex, which was certainly now rented out to someone else. Mapp, without a doubt, salvaged what she could of the belongings left behind, even with the hostility of their last phone call. Their friendship had survived enough not to be threatened by one idle incident.   
  
However, Starling vowed not to intrude on her friend's generosity longer than necessary. As soon as she found a reliable job and an apartment, she would relieve the load deposited on Mapp's shoulders. It was settled, at least in her mind, that she would not return to Quantico as a student. Not with everything that had passed, everything she saw and understood now. There would be one final trip to Jack Crawford's office for delivery of the completed Buffalo Bill file, and for that she was determined to look better than ever, admittedly for personal benefit. Just once, she needed to see Paul Krendler trip over himself. It would be the first selfish thing willfully done in what felt like an eternity.  
  
These final steps she took sealed her agreement with herself. Starling inhaled deeply and held it, moving down the sidewalk. A couple blocks down was a bus stop. It felt odd in a frightening though equally liberating fashion; this was the furthest outside she had traveled in so many months—excluding the jogging she enjoyed at the beginning of the project—without Barney or Dr. Lecter at her side.   
  
The thought seemed to jinx her. With a start, she noticed a figure, perceptibly male, standing in the streetlight across the road. She was apprehensive only for a minute—the light identifying him easily. As soon as their eyes met, a smile broke out across his face and he thundered across the pavement to meet her.   
  
Starling blinked, unable to keep her surprise from breeching her voice. "Noble…whatever are you doing here?"  
  
"I spend most of my nights here," he said eagerly, his eyes wide and admirably alert, given the time of morning. Were it anyone else, she would have seized the excuse to return to the safety of the house. Starling was reasonably tough, but she was intelligent enough to recognize a dangerous situation. A single white female, unarmed, at this time of the morning could not be the brightest move. After all, a man watching a house at such an hour in this day and age was not exactly a conventional friendly calling. However, the whelp, as Dr. Lecter had once described him, was harmless. His affections were sincere, if not obsessive. She doubted he had to work much, given his aunt's money and connections. "It's the only place where I'm happy," he continued. "Don't be angry, Ms. Starling."  
  
Her eyes flashed achingly, though she knew he would not see it. "Don't call me 'Ms. Starling,' do you hear? Clarice is good enough for me."  
  
"Has your housekeeper not told you? Or Dr. Lecter?" Pilcher took off after her as she began, hurriedly now, down the sidewalk. "I've come by several times, and called even more. They told me you were always busy, or…I—"  
  
A searing surge of irritation overwhelmed her abruptly, attacking every raw nerve, a powerful wave of aggravated despair. What was it about him! Dr. Lecter himself did not (or could not, as the case was) want her, but he similarly prevented HER from wanting others. What calculating deceit! His insufferable pride prevented him from doing that which would make them both happy. And still, even knowing this, she could not provoke herself to turn that exasperation into dislike. Rather, knowing such devious conceptions only increased her irksome infallible favor.   
  
However, her spirit descended once more as she paused in stride, performing an astute about-face, silencing Pilcher's ramblings in mid-speech.  
  
The manor was still in view, illuminated by the weak streetlights. She frowned miserably. "Noble," she whispered, though more to herself. "You don't think I'm a misfit of society, do you?"  
  
"How could you think so?" he demanded, voice not as coated with disapproval as Dr. Lecter's would have been to make such an inquiry. "I've been…completely infatuated…" He trailed off solicitously. "I can't understand why Dr. Lecter avoided telling you about my messages. I tell you, Miss…Clarice, there is no mistaking what I feel."   
  
Starling smiled appreciatively as he went on as such, describing the many evenings he had lingered outside, simply pleased to know that he was on the street where she lived. That his nights were empty if spent anywhere else. Against her better senses, she began to soften. Purely knowing there was a man alive who genuinely liked her—beyond the merit of Paul Krendler—who didn't object to social status (or would continue not to, once he knew in which circle she ran) was refreshing.  
  
Sweet vindication.   
  
However, there was that reoccurring sentiment of repetition. On and on and on he went, his own line of speech hardly as articulate as Dr. Lecter's but equally strenuous and frustrating. Having spent months with a man who specialized in teasing her nerves, she was fed up with people who assured her of a favorable disposition without following their words with actions.   
  
Not that she truly wanted this for herself. She was grateful, though, for the authentic tug at his emotions. Even the prospect of having caught her at the most unflattering of times—given her makeup and hair situation—failed to affect in the situation of his feeling.  
  
However, despite this, there was only so much one could take. Though Starling had never considered herself a person to avidly welcome displays of affection, listening to this continuous stream of assurances, she found herself growing weak with agitation. She had just spent six months with a man who teased her nerves with innuendos never followed by action. At last, she exploded, unable to stand vulnerable while her anxious eyes darting to the house that held her heart as some eager pup tried to give her his.   
  
The events that mounted the past few hours were catching up to her, a brewing pot set to explode. Tears would have tempted her again simply for inward suggestion, but she shook her head with steadfast stubbornness and released it. "Words, words, words! I'm so sick of words! Words are all I get, first from him—" She gestured violently at the house, "—now from you! You don't expect me to believe _that's _all men are good for!" She whirled in a stern turnaround and started away again, walking heated strides accentuated with firm conviction. "I don't need epic poems, or letters, or roses, or chocolates. For _that _you will only be resented. If your feelings are as you say they are, just show me and get it over with." Pilcher was more than willing to abide, but Starling increased her pace. The longer she stayed in his company, the more she was convinced that her previously good opinion—other than her gratitude at his heartfelt kindness—had originated as the regretful prompt for Dr. Lecter's jealousy. Still, she was too goaded and searing with the sting of wounded refutation to consider the weight of actions. Intentionally, she allowed a malicious slip of her perfected accent, wishing the doctor could hear. "There is no need to _explaene." _  
  
The rest of their walk consisted of a race for the bus stop. There, she heaved a breath and placed her bags down, holding a hand to exhibit her demand for space. Respectfully, Pilcher backed up, though it was evident that he wanted to seal the gap between them.   
  
"Where are you going?" he asked after a minute or so of silence.  
  
"Where I belong," she retorted with a sigh. "Finally back to where I belong."  
  
She sensed he wanted to inquire of her meaning but wisely restrained himself. As the early signs of morning began to blossom around them, her tensed nerves began to ease. It was a relief simply being paced away from the house, now out of Dr. Lecter's range from the master chamber.  
  
Still, it was felt being here, and while she recited it to herself repeatedly, the very tangible thought that she would never see the inside of the manor or even his face again had not yet sunk in. Perhaps the notion was too much to grasp in the time allowed.  
  
Perhaps she believed on a level that he would yet come after her.  
  
"Foolish sentiment," she muttered, not having intended to speak aloud, and similarly, not reacting to the confused look she received from the man at her side.   
  
The bus arrived. Pilcher presumptuously entered first, evidently set to follow her to whatever destination she might entail. Starling was not so eager, but no less reluctant. One last time, her eyes fell to the shadows they had emerged from, willing Dr. Lecter the last chance to come forward from darkness and stop her. When he did not, her shoulders slumped crestfallenly, and she nodded to herself, stepping up to the bus and flinching when the door closed behind her.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
The sight of the duplex resembled a postcard to worn, tired eyes. Starling secreted a breath, set with newfound fatigue. It was nearly five in the morning, and she knew not to expect Mapp awake, as she herself would have been six months before. Fleetingly, she wondered how difficult it would be to fall back into habit. Several times, her mind had wandered in this direction, but standing here made the prospect more real. More final and determined, perhaps accentuated with the knowledge that it would never happen.   
  
An angry day at school followed by a more spiteful retreat to some random bar, where, of course, not too much was consumed. After all, Starling was the designated driver. The responsible half of the pair. A return home around 2:00 AM, three hours of sleep before her alarm clock sounded, subsequently pursued by routine beatings of the snooze bar before she could convince herself up to take her morning jog.  
  
That was, unless, some bored gentleman decided to approach in reaction to witnessing an act of spontaneously released agitation, proceed to irritate her to her very core that inevitably led, in one way or another, to Starling falling tragically in love with him.  
  
_Hopeless romantic…_  
  
She knew it would not be like that now. Not only did she find the practice of wasting evenings in a smoke-filled room of some anonymous pub trite and ridiculous, but now the teachings of Marcus Aurelius were hammered into her system. It was one of his philosophies as a Stoic that a person was made to work, thus there was no point in lying in bed, or in her case, fighting the alarm clock. All that and more, Dr. Lecter had allowed her to sleep until nine most mornings. For anything else, she was vastly out of practice.  
  
"What are we doing here?" Pilcher asked, snapping her out of her reverie.   
  
Starling blinked and shook her head, releasing a pained sigh. Being here gave her a certain flavor of distaste, the mundane twist that had remained concealed under habit until now.  
  
"I live here," she retorted absently, ignoring the confused look she received. "Or, I used to live here."  
  
"I thought you lived with Dr. Lecter."  
  
Starling's eyes darkened and she shot him a brief glance. There was no point in growing cross with him; he had no idea how words could sting. "Did your aunt tell you that?"  
  
"Yes. She said he was a friend of your father's who was looking after you until you got back on your feet."  
  
The once solid aggravation she felt toward Mrs. Rosencranz fluttered slightly, but similarly drained its strength and fell inactive. There was no point in such aloofness now, and misplaced dislike.   
  
"I was living with Dr. Lecter," she replied a cold moment later. "We had a…complicated situation that has resolved itself."  
  
With a dry, inward chuckle, she realized suddenly what that made her. Homeless.  
  
"I just assumed she was telling the truth," Pilcher continued, eyes widening in minor offense to the challenge of his aunt's validity. "She rarely has the motive to lie, and you said that you were tired of people feeding you with words. What else could you mean?"   
  
The boy was either a highly skilled actor or located well beyond the lines of conventional ignorance.   
  
"What else indeed?" she scoffed, affronted though knowing it was only for suggestion rather than any applicable irritation. "Obviously, you have it all figured out, Noble. What could my confirmation prove?"   
  
When he smiled again, in true disclosure of his character, Starling took a sip of his previously wounded pride and smiled her threadbare kindness. It was difficult trying to create manifest dislike for someone so overly nice, in the same fashion as it was when searching for a victim at which to unleash her exasperation. A beat or so passed; she turned her attention back to the duplex and swallowed a breath. "I need to do this," she whispered. "Alone."   
  
And, before he could offer a retort, Starling set off again, heaving her bags off the pavement as she paced up the walkway. She paused before the door, nibbling thoughtfully on her lip. If at all possible, she did not wish to disturb the inhabitant—or inhabitants, as they case may be—next door by pounding until Mapp woke up. Knowing her friend's history in sleeping off a wild night, such could take a reasonably long time. Similarly, though she knew where the spare key was located, she did not want to take advantage of her friend's hopefully good temperament and presume to invite herself in. Months ago, this would not have been an object. With the new awkwardness between them, however, it was a tad presumptuous to grant herself leeway.   
  
As she processed her options, the front door swung open, causing her to gasp in surprise. A very awake, very alert Ardelia Mapp stood across the threshold. By her eyes, Starling could tell that she had been watching for some time.   
  
Such an advantage did little conceal her friend's livid confusion to see her here at this hour. They stared for a second or two.   
  
"Good morning, Ardelia," she said at last, determined to hold her ground.   
  
Mapp gawked as though she had grown another head. "What the hell happened to your voice?" she demanded. Her tone suggested an accusation of murder.   
  
The question at first threw her off. Over the course of the past couple months, Starling had grown accustomed to hearing her accent as it was, even with the willful slips into an old vernacular. It seemed odd that anyone should notice now, especially given that they had chatted since. "That was another exercise," she explained. "I thought you knew…we did converse not too long ago."   
  
"Yeah. I thought my phone was fucking up," Mapp said dismissively, apparently losing interest along with her explanation. "That's incredible."   
  
"You're awake," Starling observed, desperate to get off topic. Anything that reminded her of Dr. Lecter right now was unwelcome, even if she knew the subject was by in large inevitable. It was the only thing she could think of.   
  
"Yeah," Mapp agreed, rolling her eyes as if to exhibit her weariness. "Since you left, I had to get all responsible. Fucking sucks. No more bar nights for me." Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"   
  
A sigh rolled off her tongue, shuddering through her system. Some burden left with it, glad at last, even through her still tangible irritation, to have a friend to talk to. Someone to share a rational conversation with while likewise avoiding a search for or the issuing of innuendoes. "So many things…here…may I come in?"   
  
Mapp at first appeared offended that such a question was required, then nodded her compliance and stepped aside. "Of course, of course," she muttered. "Who's the guy?"   
  
Fleetingly, Starling blinked in confusion before recalling that Pilcher stood by the curb. "Oh. Him. He's the nephew of one of Dr. Lecter's friends."   
  
"Aren't you going to invite him in?"   
  
"I'd really rather not."   
  
"Uh oh," she retorted knowingly, reaching to grasp the other suitcase. "Another Paul Krendler? Why don't you just sock 'em, girl? Or has the Good Doctor made you forget how to do that too?"   
  
Starling smiled in faint appreciation. "No. If Pilcher were as rude as Mr. Krendler, you can be assured that _one _of us would have done something by now."   
  
It wasn't the warmest homecoming, but it was certainly more than she expected.  
  
When they were inside, in the light, Mapp abruptly dropped the bag and stared. "Oh good god!" she cried. "I knew something had to be wrong. What happened?"  
  
Again, she was confused, blinking in surprise until she noticed her friend's wide gaze studying in mute concern the telltale streaks of smeared makeup on her face. The skin around her eyes felt dry and fatigued, but still lingering a sense of normalcy. "Oh," Starling conceded, shoulders slumping as she fought the desire to let herself sink to the ground in defeat. "That. Yeah…I have a lot to tell you."   
  
"I can see that," Mapp said, grasping her forearm in support, an intuitive nature rebounding in result of many years together. "Or you wouldn't be here. I thought you were mad as hell at me. Come on, girl. Let's get you cleaned up."   
  
Ten minutes later, her face was spotless and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. A loose-fitting sweatshirt replaced her blouse, which had been carefully selected because she knew he, in particular, would approve of it. Such felt foolish now, even as only a few hours had passed. A pair of sweats and some old sneakers were thrown on in a frenzy to get comfortable. It felt alien reclining anywhere but her bedchamber in such relaxed clothing, like standing in a mall dressed in a towel. She had to fight the temptation to pull the afghan over her shoulders.   
  
There was cautious, but there was also a line.   
  
Mapp waited respectfully until she was ready to speak.   
  
"I've been very foolish," Starling said without preamble, releasing a long sigh as she ached to break her perfect posture. Some solidly founded habit forbade her from doing so.  
  
"What did he do to you?"   
  
The next was difficult to confess, plausibly for it betrayed her state of rejection, the mindset that somewhere she had been wronged. However, there was no denying the truth. Those last few minutes with Dr. Lecter were a blessed relief; the emanation of such long-restrained tension was comparable only to a breath of fresh air. She closed her eyes in silent admonishment of her own reprehensive behavior. "He did nothing to me that I didn't want him to."   
  
The lure captured Mapp's attention, and she eagerly leaned forward, eyes wide with expectation. "What did he do, Starling? Did you let him fuck you?"   
  
"No."   
  
"Did _you _fuck _him?" _  
  
"No." She smiled weakly, recalling their conversation of long ago. It was apparent—surprisingly so—that her friend's mindset had alleviated a little in the past half year. "No. He was a perfect gentleman through it all. Until the end."   
  
"But?"   
  
"But…" Starling sighed again, pulling her legs under her. The first breech in etiquette. It felt flawed and rebellious, and she loved it. "I don't know where I went wrong, Ardelia. I've spent most of my life closed off and sheltered…my own protective world in my own protective ball. And somehow…I managed to…" She looked up miserably, what she couldn't say splayed clearly on her face. There was no want to hide it, and she doubted she could even if she were so inclined.   
  
"Wait. Whoa. Hold the phone." Mapp jumped to her feet, sneering at her sharply. "Don't tell me you're in _love _with that old man!"   
  
A flash of anger crossed her features, but she couldn't find the strength to reprimand her friend for such continuous ignorance. Instead, the spark died with relative ease, and she sighed, defeated. "I know I'm an idiot," she spat bitterly, though more directed at herself. "And trust me, I've been fighting it for weeks now. Maybe longer than that. Who the hell knows anymore? But…I can't understand why it would hurt so much otherwise."   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
With little resistance, she found herself relating the ordeal entire. Every notion, every event that calculated itself to the final crucial moment. Every lesson, every look, every discussion, every feeling that passed between them. Every spark of divine similarity, every interruption by dear old Barney. Everything up to and including that final devastating conversation. Perhaps the only detail she left out was her admittance of the screaming lambs. That remained locked and secure inside an inner chamber, never to be shared with anyone again.   
  
Mapp's own disposition suffered an unexpected transformation—moving from indignant to appalled that any man could reject her in such a fashion. It was amusing watching her; viewing such disparity as dislike and speculation melted to indifference, to respect, disappointment, and finally unabridged anger.   
  
"That self-satisfied prick," she muttered angrily. "Well, you're better of without him if he thinks he's too good for you."   
  
Starling offered a weak smile of appreciation. "I've been telling myself that," she complied with a nod. "And it's not like I don't have my prospects. Noble appears to love me regardless, even if he is one of the most annoying men I have encountered in the general acquaintance."   
  
"…What?"   
  
A short rumble of laughter. "I'm sorry. I suppose it will take a few weeks to lower my new sense of terminology. It's amazing what you pick up only by association. I didn't even realize I was speaking like him until I found myself enveloped conversation with the Secretary of State last night."   
  
"I still can't believe it. You got to eat at the White House."   
  
Starling shrugged simply, as though it were not any more important or exciting than a trip to the zoo. "Highly overrated, I assure you. I'll say faithfully, Ardelia, that the more I related with their snooty society, the more I appreciated ours. I will never regret doing it, I don't think. It was a fantastic experience from such a perspective." The smile began to melt off her face. "However, it was also an eye-opener. There were things I saw and realized that will ultimately mean a roundabout turn in my life."   
  
Mapp paused hesitantly, not willing herself to hear.   
  
"I will not be returning to Quantico."   
  
"Ex_cuse _me?"   
  
With a sigh, Starling climbed to her feet, her eyes reflecting the seriousness of such an allegation. "I mean it. I cannot do that to myself. I cannot be around such self-degrading influences as Paul Krendler. My life will not be founded and supported on my imminent destruction." A sigh heaved off her shoulders. "I fear I have him to thank for this. I would not have seen it for years, if ever, were it not for his prompting me to such insight."   
  
Predictably, Mapp could not see it in such a light. Her eyes flashed angrily, her hands finding station at her hips like an angry schoolmaster preparing for a scolding session. "So not only does he make you fall in love with him," she hissed. "He _also _steals your future without offering you another one. What a guy, Starling! What a guy!"   
  
"Stop it, Ardelia. It's for the best."   
  
"How? How is it for the best? What in god's name will you do, now? You've only worked for this your WHOLE life! And what do you have to show for it?"   
  
Starling smiled wryly. Without replying, she moved passed her friend and to her suitcase, unzipping the side-flap. Inside was the complete Buffalo Bill case file, ready to be analyzed, though she knew no one would find fault in her conclusions. As Dr. Lecter had said, it was a giant jigsaw puzzle, the pieces strewn across the country in waiting to be placed together. With some satisfaction, she handed it to Mapp, flipping open to the last page.   
  
Blessed success.   
  
The look on Mapp's face was, in Barney's words, an _immense achievement. _At first, her eyes were dark and skeptical, reeling in surprise that _this, _of all things, was her last resort. Then, as she traced the results, the clues placed together, her features fell to the same realization that had tackled Starling only hours before. Decisively, she gasped as her eyes shot upward, wide with surprise and admiration. "Holy _fuck_, Starling. Do you know what this means?"  
  
"Yes—"   
  
"He's been THERE! Under our noses the entire FUCKING time! Every time we had an agent go investigate…Belvedere…I don't believe it!"   
  
Starling chuckled lightly, tugging the file from her grasp. "Do _that _for a few hours, Ardelia, and you might be in the same place I am right now."   
  
"And…Dr. Lecter helped you see all this? We have HIM of all people to thank?"  
  
"He helped me see it, yes. But those are my conclusions." For whatever reason, that distinction was essential. "But it's true that I would not have arrived at such a pivotal point if not for his influence."   
  
The passing seconds assisted in lowering Mapp's excitement, though her chest heaved with exertion. "You know, Starling," she said thoughtfully a minute later. "Things might not be as bleak as you think they are. It sounds like, if he went to so much trouble for you, that he might…"   
  
"I know he does. He told me so."   
  
"And he kissed you."   
  
She shrugged. "Well, you know what they say. 'A kiss is just a kiss.'"   
  
"I thought you said it was a kiss is _still _a kiss."   
  
"I found I much prefer the incorrect lyric."   
  
"What are we going to do about this?" Mapp looked resolutely to the case file.   
  
"Take it in to Crawford, what else? It'll be the last time I see him, or Quantico."   
  
There looked to be an air of steady objection ready on her friend's tongue, but she released it just as quickly, nodding in comprehension. "I see. I see. Well, there's one thing we'll have to be certain of."   
  
"What's that?"   
  
Mapp grinned wickedly. "You're going to look _fabulous." _  
  
  


* * * 


	14. Familiar Faces

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.   
  
Chapter Thirteen   
  
Morning light cracked through half-closed window shades. The hour seemed ridiculously early, but for the first time in years, Dr. Lecter had no desire to remain concealed in his bedchamber. It had been a long while since his mind engaged in such arduous civil war, well beyond the recesses of his impeccable memory. This struck him as strangely disconcerting in a bothersome, expressive fashion. More so for he knew it wouldn't trouble him if not for one decisive factor.  
  
She would soon be gone. Over and over, he told himself that this was precisely what he wanted. It was for the best on both sides. The events of the night before were not without consequence—rather the unavoidable conclusion to such long repressed tension.   
  
And yet, despite that, what he said and did, he could not convince himself that the correct course of action was taken. Long ago, Dr. Lecter acquainted himself with the indisputable issue that personal affairs amounted to little more than a headache. Women of his past were respectable though unremarkable—it came to equivalent of the same. The shared associations were courtly and brief. In the end, he kept friends with these contacts but nothing more. No woman ever held his interest and attention long enough to develop any lasting relationship.   
  
Until now…now when he had someone truly exceptional. The only feasible course of action was to perform in complete disassociation?  
  
Was that his problem? Was he was apprehensive of the possibility of Starling boring him eventually? Of lowering his high opinion? That didn't seem likely. After all, they had spent six months together. Every day was a blissful surprise.   
  
Perhaps _that _was the issue. Not so much that he feared growing tired of her, but the more probable likelihood that he would not. Things were secure on this side of bachelorhood. However, there was the notion that he had never before discontinued a courtship only to wrestle with himself through throughout the night and awake with pangs he could only identify as regret. Such was darkly disturbing but no less viable.   
  
There was perhaps some sagacity in his course of action. Any woman to affect him like this might rightly be the means to an end.  
  
The hurt in her eyes, he would never forget, nor the wounded strength of her well structured retort. _There can be no want of feeling between the likes of you and the likes of me. _She was strong: built on courage and fortitude. Dr. Lecter did not believe he knew anyone more able. However much or whatever he said would be taken and digested, preferably for the betterment of her career.   
  
Her career. Yes, yes, her career. That which would inevitably hurt her more than he ever could. That which he sent her back to, presumably for the best. An excuse he made for himself. After all, there was a deeply rooted part of her that loved it, needed it, craved it. A favorite bad habit. No matter how he pounded culture into her system; the music, the food, the wine, the finer luxuries in life, she clung to what was known. What she valued. However, respectfully, she took his teachings with her. Starling was no more changed than she was when she came to him six months ago. Yes, she had been introduced to his world, and he to hers, in some charming unforgettable trade.   
  
There was another notion that he found somewhat distressing. An inward prompting cautioned that he would miss her world more than she would his.   
  
The luncheon with Mrs. Rosencranz and friends was a prime example. Her roots revealed themselves at the most inopportune times. However, society needed her to unique its flavor. It was inappropriate, yes, but it also proved droll and thought provoking. In the end, he could only regard it with a fond, albeit poignant smile.  
  
A ridiculous thought sprung to mind. Perhaps he was searching for boundaries that did not exist. Conceivably the voids keeping them a part that were not there to begin with. Dr. Lecter doubted such to be true; his perception rarely betrayed him. Even so, at any rate, these musings merited a continuance of their discussion. While he had no intention of disquieting her slumber, he found himself inexplicably eager to speak with her again.  
  
The thought lasted only for a beat, settling with an intuitive sense that screamed what he already knew. Clarice was gone. Nothing powerfully overdramatic; rather an astute and always accurate observation. As he sat up, he noticed the air of the manor was abstractedly tainted with her scent, with the place she had once occupied, but Dr. Lecter required no forward indication to confirm the obvious. She was gone.   
  
It struck him oddly. There was no justice in feeling bitter, or even vindicated. However, he could not explain the manner in which the pit of his stomach seemed to fall with dreary realization. The acknowledgement of his so-called wishes. Never had he felt so empty to achieve that which he claimed he wanted—never had he claimed to want something that he did not, on any level.   
  
Slowly, he opened the door to the hallway, surprised by its barrenness. The door to her room was shut as it was every morning, but he knew it was vacant. It was as if he had developed a sixth sense of her mannerisms. Every word, motion, beat, breath, blink was etched tightly to memory.   
  
This hall was consumed in its dreary state of being. A bright ray of sunlight shrinking back to the bleak darkness from which it came.  
  
The door to Barney's room swung open suddenly, and his friend moved menacingly to shadow its path. It was obvious he had been awake for sometime, perhaps focusing on similar musings. His arms were crossed in some infamous manner that screamed an unhappy disposition. Furthermore, by the distinct glare in his eyes, Dr. Lecter acknowledged he also understood that their live-in guest was no longer with them.  
  
He understood much more.   
  
"Good morning," the doctor greeted, eying the bird's door with passive discernment.  
  
Barney was in no mood for pleasantries. The initial salutation wasted itself to the want of neither party. "You promised me, Doc," he spat coldly. "You promised me no advantage would be taken of her situation." He nodded toward the closed chamber without looking at it.  
  
Dr. Lecter was not surprised in his perception. Despite appearances, his friend always understood more than was credited. "No advantage was taken." There was no point to offer dispute. He would not insult Barney's intelligence in such a degrading fashion. Anything else was designated to take him into some disclosure. Perhaps his friend suspected the reasons behind Starling's departure to center around such an alleged act of misconduct.  
  
"You two must've thought I was blind," Barney continued. He had never seemed so foully abused. "I saw it before either of you could." Some of his anger calmed, his shoulders slumping tiredly. "Poor Starling. You should've seen her last night, Doc. She was a mess."  
  
That drew his attention sharply. Dr. Lecter's eyes widened in minor offense. "You saw her last night?"  
  
"This morning," Barney acknowledged. "Before she left."  
  
"And you did nothing to prevent her leaving?" Disbelief surfed with every passing instant. It took little to force himself to the admittance that he would have done nothing short of bolting the door closed or—more pleasurably—locking her up to keep her under this roof.  
  
But, logically, he had told her the best thing for either of them was her departure. It occurred to Dr. Lecter that it was human nature to resent rationality, even spite it when event beyond control occurred. Another factor piling against him; the ailment it was to feel human after all. She made him so. She made him many things. "Clarice didn't leave any indication as to her destination?"  
  
"No. I _assume _she's going back to Quantico."  
  
"And she didn't leave any direction on where to send her things? Her clothes? Her personal belongings?"  
  
"She took everything with her. I checked." Barney paused thoughtfully. "Someone picked her up, I think. I watched a bit to make sure she got off all right. There was a man waiting for her on the other side of the street."  
  
Dr. Lecter's eyes darkened at the insinuation, even as a shudder of concern traced his spine. "Did you see who it was?"  
  
"No. My night vision sucks."  
  
"And you assumed this was normal? A man waiting for her in the middle of the night?"  
  
"She didn't seem too concerned or scared. They chatted for a while, and she started to move away. He followed."  
  
Another useless human candor. Dr. Lecter knew it was foolish to distress at such news but could not help himself. As though sensing the change in temperament, Barney led him downstairs for a cup of morning tea. The previously negative outlook had vanished with sincerity. Perhaps he sensed the goodness of misplacement.   
  
The doctor recalled asking Starling to leave a note for Mrs. Pearce, or in whichever case, in request of coffee instead of tea. It felt a lifetime had passed since then.  
  
His mind could not help but wander to this man that had waited for her outside, but his better senses were torn between concern and jealousy. From Barney's description, the encounter seemed innocent enough. Perhaps Starling had called someone to pick her up. But, he reflected, Dr. Lecter felt he knew her better than anyone. Not once had she mentioned a male acquaintance that she did not refer to without a grimace of distaste. The only man he could think of that she would call for assistance given such a situation was himself.   
  
Mrs. Pearce arrived at the prescheduled time. He wondered absently if things as trivial as that would return to the droll state of being they were in before Starling entered his life. No one answered the door; by this time, she was accustomed to letting herself in.   
  
The expression of bewilderment captured on her face to see both men in the kitchen, donning no more than their bathrobes sprung out briefly before her eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. "Where's Ms. Starling?" she asked, placing a bag of what was presumably the traditional morning bagels on the counter.  
  
"She has left," Dr. Lecter said, taking a sip of tea. "Early this morning, Barney allowed her to leave without telling me a thing about it."  
  
Astonishment clouded her features. "Well, I'm dashed!" she exclaimed.  
  
"And now everything's in general disarray," Barney said miserably.  
  
"Indeed," Dr. Lecter agreed. "I received tea this morning instead of coffee. And it has occurred to me that I don't know where anything is; I don't know when my appointments are." Such was difficult to admit, but he was beyond the brink of caring. Regular appointments seemed so distant, but he had scheduled them before the project began.   
  
"Clarice would know," Mrs. Pearce offered unhelpfully.  
  
"Of course she would." Dr. Lecter set his cup down and moved briskly from the kitchen. "But she's gone."  
  
Both followed him aimlessly into the parlor where he sat himself restlessly on the sofa.   
  
"Did either of you gentlemen frighten her last night?"   
  
"No." Dr. Lecter shook his head. "No, Mrs. Pearce, it was nothing like that." A minor fluster of temper flared at the suggestion that she could be prompted to leave by something as tedious as a little bullying. Starling didn't wear her emotions on her sleeves, and she was certainly one to put up a fight. There was something else being overlooked. Everyone was acting as though her departure was not foreseen, that she would be here until the day she died. For this, though he wished it otherwise, he felt compelled to correct. "All more besides, we all knew this day would arrive."  
  
"It came too soon," Barney complained desolately.  
  
"Bring yourself together," the doctor snapped, his eyes flashing with edginess. "And desist the ineffectual boohooing. You have your prospects, and I can still get you that position you came to me for in the first place." His sudden sharpness surprised both his friend and the housekeeper. After a minute, he calmed, turning away. The lighting in the room seemed so different from the night before. "I would like to know that she arrived safely," he conceded a beat later.  
  
"I have her roommate's number!" Barney announced. "I can call real quick and—"  
  
"You do that," he agreed. "And if she is not there, attempt to reach Jack Crawford. She will have gone to him to deliver her case file as soon as she could."  
  
Ten minutes later, there was a negative conclusion on both sources. The woman Dr. Lecter had only briefly encountered was reportedly unsociable. She claimed to have not heard from Starling since before the White House extravaganza, recounting the outcome of that conversation with details the doctor was already familiar with. However, he did not allow himself to grow concerned until Crawford indicated that he had not seen Starling since his visit months earlier, and proceeded to go off on a tyrant of how anyone could misplace or offend her in such a manner that he claimed was an undoubtedly of an infamous nature.  
  
It struck Dr. Lecter as highly unlikely that Starling would have gone so long without reporting to either her friend or her superior. Either something was wrong, or someone wasn't being honest. Of the two, the latter was more believable, but such could not be risked. To be sure, he had others at Quantico—associates and those who knew her—similarly vouch that she had not reported in that morning, or any morning for the past several months.  
  
"We could phone the hospitals," Barney said helpfully, his own concern not nearly as masked. "Or the police, but they won't be able to do anything for forty-eight hours, if she hasn't turned up by then."  
  
"I'm dashed!" Mrs. Pearce said again pointlessly.  
  
"Call them anyway," Dr. Lecter said nonchalantly, moving upstairs to dress. "I'm sure Jack Crawford will speed things up, once he hears of it. It couldn't hurt to have her name and description, though I doubt the police will be able to be of any real help."  
  
As always, Mrs. Pearce sought and located fault in this manner of approach, and predictably, could not keep her objection to herself. From the banister, she scowled and called up the landing. "Dr. Lecter! You can't give Clarice's name to the police as though she were a thief or a lost umbrella!"  
  
"Well why not? I want to find her, don't I? She belongs to me. I paid five thousand dollars for her." And that was the end of that. Accentually, he closed the door—nearly a slam, but not quite.  
  
"He's right," Barney agreed absently to a disgruntled housekeeper as he speedily punched the phone dial.  
  
The upstairs door flew open again—Dr. Lecter's voice carrying into the foyer. "Would you please send up a cup of coffee, Mrs. Pearce?"  
  
Still unsatisfied, she grudgingly agreed.  
  
Finally connected, Barney dragged the portable phone into the lobby; speaking loud enough to assure himself that the doctor could hear, should he be inclined to make a correction, or anything at all. Though he trusted himself, he understood that Dr. Lecter knew her better than anyone in the household. He had to, to be so in love with her. "Yes, yes, this is Barney Jackson speaking. 27-A Wimpole street. I want to report a missing person. Miss Clarice Starling. Yeah. About twenty-six. Her height? Uh ohh…I should think around five-seven. Her eyes…" He trailed off, knowing the answer perfectly well, but wanting to assure himself of Dr. Lecter's reported disposition. If the doctor was listening well enough to offer a compelling reaction, it was all the answer he required. "Her eyes…ummm."  
  
Indeed, Barney was gratified. The upstairs door flew open as its occupant called downward, his voice raw with agitated impatience. "Her eyes are a chestnut color, but for posterity sake, I would say brown." The door closed again.  
  
Barney grinned tightly. "Uh, brown. Yes. Her hair? Oh good lord…let me see. No no. Well, it's a sort of nondescript, neutral sort of—"  
  
Again the door upstairs swung open, this time in no attempt to disguise such impatience. "Brown, brown, brown!"  
  
The smile stretching his lips extended as a small surge of victory tackled his senses. It was only an amount of time before Dr. Lecter realized it as well. "Did you hear what he said?" Barney continued. "'Brown, brown, brown.' Yes. No, no, no…this is her residence." Close enough to the truth. This is where the general contacts wanted her residence to be, those who now knew her better than anyone else, and likewise loved her more than anyone else. "27A—Yes, yes. Uh…about between 3:00 and 4:00 this morning. Yes, I understand. Forty…yes. Rela—no, she's no relation. What? Well, let's just call her a good friend." Barney chuckled lightheartedly, then his expression darkened with menace. "What? I don't like the tone of that suggestion. What she does here is our affair. Your affair is to get her back here so she can continue doing it." He then offered an angry slam to the receiver, muttering something about society today before picking the phone up again to call the hospital.  
  
A few minutes later, Dr. Lecter emerged fully dressed from his chamber. He listened as Barney relayed the information provided, confirming a negative report. This was reassuring on a level. The doctor nodded his thanks and moved hurriedly for the door.  
  
"I am going to visit Rachel," he announced, fitting his coat over his shoulders. "She is not without her connections, and might see Clarice today while touring the city."  
  
Barney frowned. "Are you grasping at straws? Why would Mrs. Rosencranz help you now?"  
  
"Because she is a decent human being and a friend," Dr. Lecter retorted as he placed his fedora over his crown. Then he was out the door without finality, moving with definitive, eager haste.   
  
"It looks like rain!" Barney called after him, grasping the umbrella next to the coat rack and tossing it in the doctor's direction. In one fluid motion, Dr. Lecter turned, caught it with ease, tipped his hat, then whirled and continued.  
  
Barney was not about to sit idle waiting for updates, though as eager as he was for the doctor to find her first. This seemed especially essential as his old romantic side screamed that any reunion would resort in victory. He knew precious little about the events calculated in the evening before, but enough was seen in both their eyes—what they couldn't help but reveal—for him to draw his own conclusions. However, his nerves allowed for no such laziness. A few minutes following his friend's departure, he informed Mrs. Pearce that he was going to personally visit the hospital to confirm she wasn't there. With as many patients admitted, he explained, it was easy to overlook one in the heat of things. There, if presented with further negative results, he would phone Quantico again to be sure—by that time—that _someone _had seen her.  
  
"I do hope you find her," Mrs. Pearce said encouragingly as she presented him with his coat and umbrella. "Dr. Lecter will miss her."  
  
That made him pause with a knowing leer, but Barney could not convince himself to continue with the obvious retort. Instead, he snickered and arched a brow. "Dr. Lecter will miss her, eh? Well fuck Dr. Lecter. _I'll _miss her!"  
  
And he left just like that, feeling intensely proud of himself.   
  
  


* * * 

  
  
Starling was in the shower when Barney called, and remained blissfully ignorant that the interaction ever took place. It was in Mapp's opinion that this was best, at least for now. While she did not doubt her friend's new sincerity, it was equally important that she see everything she was leaving behind unhampered by outside distractions.  
  
And needles to say, Dr. Lecter, or anyone associated with Dr. Lecter, was clearly a distraction.  
  
The chance remained very pliable that Starling would see Quantico for all its grief and heartache and still be tugged into the position that demanded her loyalty, despite prudence. Perhaps this was conniving on a level, but Mapp didn't care. She wanted the very best for her friend, and also trusted that the best consisted of what was left behind.  
  
Despite the nasty bitterness of the past, there had not been one with more promise since Will Graham. To throw away that future without serious consideration for a man who refused to love her as she deserved was a grievous failing indeed.  
  
In devotion to her word, Starling left the house looking beyond marvelous. Of course, Mapp could not assume responsibility for this. Much to her surprise, she watched as her friend correctly applied and used the products she had never before exhibited any interest in. Starling's hair had always been easy for her but similarly rarely styled it in any fashion other than draped over her shoulders or drawn into a ponytail. Now, her fashion was elegant, straightforward but also unlike any she had worn before. Likewise, Starling rejected Mapp's offer of assistance when selecting her wardrobe. There were several business suits she had had purchased for her on the many outings to town. Her use of makeup was flattering but hardly overdone. In the end, she selected an outfit not contrasting that which she wore to Baltimore. A burgundy business dress cut just above the knee with a jacket that fit tightly over her shoulders. Once upon a time, one would have had to hogtie Starling to get her to consider pantyhose, which she now wore gratefully along with heels she could walk in without tripping. Mapp was continuously impressed with such new resources, and for that alone, all was worth it.  
  
"What are you going to tell him?" Mapp asked as they settled into the seats of her vehicle.  
  
Starling sighed heavily, stalling until she heard the seatbelt click. "I'm not sure. It'd be easiest simply to hand him the file and have it over and done with. However, knowing Mr. Crawford, he will be in the market for a lengthy explanation."  
  
"Well, naturally," her friend agreed. "The popular idea was that you would be back when this lousy charade was over."   
  
With a small, acknowledging sad smile, Starling nodded her comprehension; her stomach performing imposing somersaults as the car pulled out of the drive. "I know," she whispered. "But things change. _People _change."  
  
So enveloped were they in growing anticipation that neither recalled that Pilcher remained by the curb. A simultaneous gasp perturbed the air when he knocked on the window and insisted to be included with the day's emergent festivities.  
  
Nerves were tense, even those belonging to the only occupant who remained ignorant of the events stirring around him. Temperament inside the car did not pick-up until the destination was nearly obtained. Starling knew maddeningly that she could not rid herself of the whelp's company without a can of mace, but assured Mapp anyway that she could do this alone.   
  
It felt odd standing outside of Quantico, more than it had gazing at the duplex she had inhabited for years. There in the shadows of the place she had worked her hardest. The place where it came easy for her. The place she wanted to be a part of more than anything. _Had wanted _to be a part of. That was over now. For whatever reason, it felt natural that she should don high heels instead of sneakers, carry the file respectfully at her side instead of protectively at her breast. Even Pilcher's mindless chatting could not drag her from her reverie. This was what she had worked for. Not the White House, not Dr. Lecter…for herself. To walk into the Behavioral Science department with confidence, deliver the goods, and walk away without turning back.  
  
A little girl had once entered the buildings, traced the maze-like corridors and sat in numerous offices in anticipation of updates. True, she was still a child in many ways, Starling knew she wasn't today. Not now.   
  
And so, without warning her companion, she set forward again. Her strides were aligned with confidence, her eyes set and determined. She smiled at the sound of her own heels clicking at the pavement and couldn't help wonder if she would see Paul Krendler today. It was perhaps the first time such a prospect had presented itself without being followed by an inward gesture of distaste. Nothing would stop her now. Hell, she might even say hello.  
  
A few months before, Starling knew she would have killed to see this place. Now she understood that the only need was to say goodbye.  
  
It was doubtful, however, that Jack Crawford would allow her leave that easily. The man possessed an uncanny ability to make anyone feel three inches tall. She recalled her first days working in his presence. Crawford was a giant in the world he lived in, his reputation demanding respect, even if you were caught in the negative ties of his personality. Those manipulative skills he had mastered and exercised on freewill allowed him to be both admired and scorned by the same individual. He was blunt in motive though backhand in word. Her last few months as a student were made miserable because of his persistent hounding—because he truly believed her to be his next Will Graham. Such was flattering in that unspoken, unseen sort of fashion that no one cares to accept.  
  
Having met Graham only the night before, Starling was satisfied to have freed herself from that expectation.  
  
Walking the hallways seemed a surreal dream in a liberating manner. Every stride was validation that she had progressed passed this point. No regrets. It was almost comparable to a high school reunion. The times spent and lessons learned within its structure were valued in the highest regard, but she wouldn't go back or relieve them for the world.  
  
Starling reached Crawford's office in time to see Paul Krendler rise from the seat across from his desk and depart from the room. Much to her surprise, he didn't look at her, evidently disgruntled about something. Perhaps he angrily brushed Pilcher's shoulder as he passed, but she was too focused to notice. The churnings of disgust she had come to expect when in his presence were even nonexistent. Instead, she turned to her companion and whispered furiously that he had to wait outside.   
  
It was time.  
  
The office had not seen the face of change in years, and today was no exception. Starling wondered briefly why she assumed everything should have suffered reform just because she had. Human tendency, perhaps. Her eyes greeted a familiar scene that forced her to suppress a snicker. For the life of her, she wondered if Crawford had moved since her last visit. The image was untouched. He was hunched over his desk, the wooden surface splayed with open case files whose pages were polluted with incomprehensible scribbling. There seemed to be a permanent nook in his desk made especially for his elbow, his hand cradling his brow as he wrote furiously with the other. It seemed the man would have to clone himself to experience any conventional social life. She smiled in indefatigably bothersome fondness, though her conviction remained undamaged.  
  
It took a few beats of silence to realize she was delaying the inevitable moment. There was no sense in standing around; she wanted in and out as soon as possible. Without further resignation, Starling straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. "Mr. Crawford?"  
  
"Not now," he snapped, the hand at his brow taking momentary leave to shoo her away. His head did not so much as wander up. "I'm busy."  
  
She blinked her surprise. That wasn't the reaction she expected. Never before had the Guru been cross with her. A 'welcome back' at the very least was in order, even if it was short-lived.  
  
Then she recalled her altered accent and grinned.  
  
"Mr. Crawford?" she repeated, unmoved.  
  
"I told you—" His eyes shot upward with fiery intent, but froze when he saw her face. Then his expression drained and his complexion paled. "Starling?" he whispered, as though questioning her tangibility. A specter standing in his office was perhaps more believable.  
  
Indeed, it must have been an odd sight. Her hair had grown an inch or so, but was looked better than ever. The clothing she adorned resembled something a friend had worn to a Halloween party once upon a time ago—much to everyone's drunken delight, a glimpse of how everything would appear in 'opposite land.' She was more feminine now than she had ever been before.  
  
"Here," she said without preface, placing the file over his mound of work. "The case is over, Mr. Crawford. All of it. Look in the back if you need confirmation. Buffalo Bill is somewhere in Belvedere, Ohio."  
  
Crawford's eyes widened skeptically and lowered to the document. "You sound so sure," he observed. Doubt was evident in his tone. "Don't you think it's a little suspicious, Starling? Why would he be where the first girl was abducted?"  
  
"This isn't a film, Sir. There are no hidden clues, no mysteries only solvable by James Bond. You told me a long time ago that serial killers are never that inconspicuous, are rather clumsy creatures just _itching _to fall into a trap. If you would look in the back, you would see it all fits," she insisted, her voice accumulating in bitterness. "In the back, please. He's making himself a woman suit. Look—" When he did little more than stare at her distrustfully, she finally lurched forward and flipped to the last page, sprawled in her individual conclusions. What was so difficult of rewording something she had heard only hours before? "He needs a two-story house, Sir. He's not a drifter. What he does requires privacy. I doubt he would have associated much with the locals. But he knew Fredricka Bimmel. He weighted her down to throw us off—so that the order would be random. See?" She practically had to grasp his head and force it to face the text.  
  
It was a satisfactory triumph watching the shades of realization cascade over his doubting gaze. Crawford's eyes widened, tracing her path of notes and ending results with his forefinger, excitement replacing the looming reservation hovering in his features. "I don't believe it," he gasped. "We'll have someone there in an hour—a half hour if we're lucky." Then he was out of the office, shouting to someone down the hall. "I should go too," he said, grabbing his coat off the back of his seat. "I'll never know how you did it, Starling, but I won't ask. Good to have you back. We'll take about reinstatement into the academy when I return."  
  
"I won't be here when you return," she said softly. Having not budged from her seat, she felt him pause without seeing. The temptation was upon her to turn, but she restrained, preparing herself.  
  
"What?!" he demanded finally, a shrill to his voice.  
  
"I am currently not a student, and I do not intend to be one again."  
  
_"Why?" _  
  
"It's for the best." Starling's eyes followed him as he came back into view, unresponsive to the dazed surprise tackling his expression. "Don't ask me to explain my motives. You do not have time for that. Just accept my position. There are other issues of more importance."  
  
"It's because of _him, _isn't it?" he accused bitterly, promptly ignoring her appeal. "Let me guess. Your precious doctor made you a material offer that you can't refuse. Right?"  
  
Somehow she managed to refrain from flinching at the insinuation, though an inward ache could not help but surge. "Not my precious doctor," she said strongly, her voice wavering a bit perhaps.  
  
Crawford caught it, of course, and smiled unpleasantly. "He sent you back, didn't he? Got tired of you after all."  
  
"No," Starling insisted too quickly. "No. I left on my own merit."  
  
At that, his superior leer vanished and his eyes widened in shock. This decision was solely based and funded without outside assistance. He saw that now. "Where will you go, if not here?"  
  
"I'll make it on my own. I have the education and the degrees to do so. There is work out there to be had, and I intend to take it."  
  
Crawford's nostrils flared and his eyes blazed as though personally offended. He violently turned away, like a teakettle ready to overflow. "Women are irrational!" he erupted finally, turning to her in a furious stroke. "That's all there is to that. Their heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags. They're nothing exasperating, irritating, vacillating, calculating, agitating, maddening, and infuriating hussies!"  
  
Starling swallowed a gasp, beyond surprised to witness the man explode. Never before had she seen him lose is cool head in such an aggressive fashion. Though, in the end, she didn't know whether it was more appropriate to be offended or amused.  
  
"Are you all right, Mr. Crawford?" she asked a hesitant minute later.  
  
"No, I'm not all right!" he snarled. "What a time to tell me this! And I can't say anything. I don't have the time." He turned again and paraded angry strides to the office door, halted only by her voice, which required no such elevation.  
  
"Nothing you could say now or ever would shunt my conviction."  
  
A long pause preceded a sigh, and she sensed his fury dissipating in wretched defeat. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked weakly.  
  
"Yes." There was no strain of doubt in her tone.  
  
Crawford pursed his lips in thought, offered a beat of struggle, then conceded another sigh and moved to his desk. "I have a friend in New York," he said, grasping a loose-leaf sheet of paper and wrestling with the supplies on his desk until he located a pen. "He teaches at The John Jay College of Criminal Justice, and called me a few days ago looking for an assistant. Give him a call and he'll give you a job. Just tell him I referred you." He looked up, folding the paper and extending it to her grasp. She looked from him, to the offering, to him again but made no move to accept it. A grudging sigh rolled off his shoulders. "Take it, Starling. He's a good guy and it's a good job."  
  
The honest disposition of his character convinced her. Wordlessly, she nodded and took the number from his grasp, opening her purse to find it sanctuary without looking at it. "Thank you, Mr. Crawford."  
  
He finally smiled, a sad though gratified smile. "Good luck, Starling. And thanks."  
  
And he brushed passed her, determinately not to be delayed again. The sound of his footsteps could be heard for a few seconds, but faded into nothingness.   
  
It didn't take as long as she thought it would to tear herself away from the office. A minute or so of quiet reflection and she was ready. Inhaling a deep breath, she turned and strode out for what was confidently the last time. Pilcher waited by the doorway, the image of a loyal puppy.   
  
Walking away from her past offered the first bit of closure she had experienced in weeks. The outlook on life was rosy, and while she didn't know where she was going or what she was doing, she was happy. Happily satisfied that this move, at the very least, was the right one to make.  
  
Of course, there was a part of her that screamed vindication. The greater tugging at her heart pushed her backward into the path she escaped only that morning. She denied herself another sigh and forced a smile to Pilcher. It would take a while, understandably, to get over that.  
  
This was an excellent start.  
  
"Where are we going now?" Pilcher asked eagerly.   
  
"I'm going to pack," she replied. "And get ready. I might be moving to New York."  
  
"New York?"  
  
"If the job is good," Starling explained. "Crawford wants to make sure I'm settled somewhere. He didn't tell me much, but it sounds reasonable. I'll have to consider."  
  
"My uncle can probably help you get a place there." Pilcher's tone surprisingly understanding, though not without its desolate disappointment. "He has some a friend in the city who runs some apartment building. It's hell trying to find a place there, or so I've heard."  
  
Starling smiled. "According to Billy Crystal, all you need to do is read the obituary column."  
  
"…What?"  
  
"Never mind." Her flippant temperament was betrayed by the amused laugh that managed passed her lips. "I'm not sure if I'm going to do it, yet."  
  
"You will."  
  
Pilcher's confidence was haunting in a way, but she speculated it vouched for accuracy. Instead of lingering, though, she decided to accept it with acquiescence and continue. The rest of their journey continued unhampered until they passed Paul Krendler again, who still failed to catch her eyes but notably checked out her backside. Starling paused when she heard him whistle.  
  
"Hello legs," he slurred disreputably.  
  
When she turned to face him, brows perked in a thoroughly unimpressed manner, his face fell and his eyes dulled. _"Starling?" _  
  
It was too momentous, too great to ruin. The grin tackling her lips could not be helped, but she did manage to maintain her laughter. "I would retort," she observed, turning to proceed down the corridor. "But I wouldn't want to spoil the look on your face, Mr. Krendler. Adieu. I do hope you have an…interesting life." And she continued, grasping Pilcher's arm for show, releasing her chuckles finally when she knew he was out of earshot.  
  
The visit was much more productive than she could have ever hoped.   
  
It wasn't until they were in the last maze in sight of the exit that someone stopped her. A relatively familiar face, one she probably knew long ago. The woman was slightly short, curly brown hair with deep pupils covered by thick glasses. Her eyes were friendly but her face was expressionless. Little time was allowed for reaction. Before she could open her mouth, the woman demanded, "Are you Officer Starling?"  
  
"I'm Miss Starling, yes."  
  
The correction was unneeded; the girl clearly didn't care. "We've had two calls from a Barney Jackson looking for you. Do you know who he is? You might call him back to tell him you haven't fallen off the face of the earth."  
  
Starling's face fell and her high spirits abruptly diminished. "What did he want?"  
  
"Hell if I know. He just asked if anyone had seen you and to call him if you came in."   
  
Breath vacated her body, her heart at first stopping, then pounded wildly. Without warning, she was hit by the wealth of confusing emotion that had plagued her that morning. A feeling of raw despondency and gloom as her lungs fought for air. The room might have stood in a permanent state of being had Pilcher not tugged at her arm. Absently, she thanked the woman who scurried off once dismissed.  
  
"Come on," he whispered urgently. "Let's get out of here. Aunt Rachel is still in town…maybe she can call my uncle and see if that's at all fixable."  
  
But she wasn't listening, wasn't blinking or breathing. The only way he got her to move was to drag her out. Her mind was detached and far away, plagued with terrible curiosity and wonder. What on earth could Barney want with her now?  
  
  
  


* * * 


	15. Closure

Author's Note : Well, Steel…it appears I have "end-of-fic-itis." For you, here's Chapter 14.. by the weekend as you requested. Only one more and an epilogue left. Hurrah!

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.   
  
Chapter Fourteen   
  
Arrival at the Pennsylvania House was redundant in a way. After paying the cab driver, Starling stood beside Pilcher outside, who was-to her surprise-deferentially silent. Temperament had not changed much in the past hour, though her high upon leaving Crawford was on a steady climb downward. Again, all the unanswered inquiries pertaining to her future attacked her conscious state, and she found herself wrought with uncertainty. There was still little dispute that moving away from Washington, given the circumstances, was the best course of action. The position that was suggested, that which lay waiting on the table.  
  
However, since leaving Quantico, her insides had wrenched into a knot of doubt. There was no feasible reason why this woman should help her, even if the favor in question was nothing more complicated than the request of a phone number. In the weeks of their prolonged acquaintance, very few pleasantries had passed. Starling wasn't overly fond of her, and Mrs. Rosencranz had gone to every extent to make it clear that the feeling was beyond mutual. Regardless, Pilcher seemed optimistic, and perhaps his aunt's spirit would improve when she was updated on all that had passed.  
  
Still, the thought of moving to New York alone was enough to shake her to very core. This wasn't so much a feeling of trepidation or qualm-Washington was far from earning the honorary title of home, but it was still the founder of her better memories. Moving away was, in the end, inevitable, as she had known this since that morning, probably longer.  
  
Upon leaving Quantico, Pilcher had asked her, "Are you all finished here?"   
  
What a peculiar inquiry, liberating and meaningful on a variety of levels. It felt odd to answer the affirmative without experiencing a rush of fear at acknowledging what such an admittance concurred.   
  
A big city that promised a new start. It was more than she could ever ask. Furthermore, she would be doing something she liked, something she could enjoy without floundering her years of dedicated education. Then again, she could always marry Pilcher and live off the good graces of his fortunate connections for the rest of her days.  
  
That thought prompted a snicker.   
  
Drawing in a breath, Starling straightened her posture and gave herself an inward nudge. "Let's go," she whispered to her companion, who all but shot up the walkway at the sound of her voice.  
  
It wasn't until they were inside that she realized it would be luck if the woman was there at all. The hour was near one in the afternoon, and she recalled Dr. Lecter's saying that Mrs. Rosencranz planned to tour the city with friends all day. When the door was answered, though, Starling wasn't sure if it was relief that shrouded her system or disappointment.   
  
It seemed their unsuspecting host was wrought with the same confusion. The look in her eyes was indistinguishable, mixed with delight to see her nephew and perplexity at the woman by his side. Amazingly, she avoided a sheath of general distaste, rather gathered herself quickly and flashed a fast smile. "Noble! Ms. Starling…this certainly is unexpected."  
  
She smiled her discomfiture. "We don't mean to-"  
  
"Hello, Auntie Rachel!" Pilcher chirped merrily, making a presumptuous move inward. "Is this a good time?"  
  
"I was actually on my way out."  
  
"Oh." His face fell, but only for a minute. "This won't take long-I promise. Is Uncle Franz at home? We need to get a hold of him."  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz gave him a long, wary look, though Starling suspected it was directed more toward her. "Why?"  
  
"He still knows that fellow, right? The one that owns the apartment complex in Manhattan? Oh, what's-it-called…"  
  
That nabbed the woman's attention and for whatever reason, perhaps evoked instincts. She knew immediately that Pilcher was not inquiring for his own benefit. "Oh?" Mrs. Rosencranz asked, gazing at Starling narrowly. "Whatever could you need him for?"  
  
"Clarice might be moving," Pilcher explained. "Her old boss-"  
  
"May I speak with you, Ms. Starling?" she asked suddenly, breaking her nephew's rambling in mid-sentence, her eyes wide with intrigue and interest. The directness of the question made her start briefly. "Alone?"  
  
And so it was that Pilcher, for the third time that day, was left outside, stuck behind a closed door-unable and uninvited to do anything but wait.  
  
To say Starling was unsurprised by such forwardness would be quite untrue, and to make things worse, she didn't know how to react. Once inside, she was invited to sit wherever she liked, though a hotel room offered few options. She pulled a chair near the window and awkwardly took her seat.  
  
The woman was acting suspiciously hospitable, even if she was still cagey. Courteous, yes, but not altogether kind. However, when she spoke came the greatest surprise of all. Nothing but consideration, as if drawing a tacit truce. Womanly intuitions outweighed the most animalesque of instincts. Several times, she asked if Starling was comfortable and if there was anything she could get for her. Every offer was declined with thanks. Still, Mrs. Rosencranz's eyes progressively sparkled with curiosity, and the line of questions would soon begin.   
  
Pleasantries dwindled, but not without merit. Sometimes people who were practically strangers understood a person better than her closest friends.   
  
Such appeared to be the case today. The small talk dissolved after a few minutes into a self-conscious silence. Starling turned and gazed out the window absently, itching in discomfort. She had never imagined herself into the position where she would be alone in Mrs. Rosencranz's company without Dr. Lecter near, or closely surveying her actions.   
  
_Things don't always work out as we plan. _  
  
"I know you're not terribly fond of me, Ms. Starling," the woman said finally as she processed these perplexing thoughts. The statement seemed random, drawing her attention away from the window quickly, her eyes wide. Mrs. Rosencranz smiled knowingly and discarded her purse onto the bed. "And I suppose I've given you every reason for that opinion. Understand that it has never been personal. You are very, very young, and probably aren't overly familiar with the mannerisms of a shunned former girlfriend." She sat next to her purse with a sigh. "My relationship with Hannibal was never a fairytale, to be sure. In fact, with the older I get, the more I see how it could never have worked, even if I did things differently. He was the sort of man that you loved for the wrong reasons. My partiality for him was not mutual, you see, and I believe that is what hurt the most. I tried for months, Ms. Starling. At times it felt like years. But I finally awoke one morning and realized what he had known since the beginning. There really wasn't a relationship to save. Without even realizing it, we had become just…old friends who occasionally saw each other, who called each other up for seats at the symphony or special dinners with friends." She looked off thoughtfully, a strangely pained expression tickling her features.   
  
Starling sat in silence and watched her, knowing not what to say or how to react. It was the first time anyone had ever mentioned Mrs. Rosencranz's relationship with Dr. Lecter without stirring feelings of jealousy, though she was unsure that that was the intended motive.  
  
"How old are you, Ms. Starling?" she asked finally, remembering herself.  
  
"I will be twenty-seven in December."  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz wasn't looking at her. Rather, her eyes were fixed ahead, a small, unsurprised smile on her lips. "Have you had many boyfriends?"  
  
The question would have offended her once upon a time ago. There was always something laced in the drift of one's voice that insinuated something else when presented with a negative response. Not now. Much had passed since then. It felt like a perverse dream in many ways. Even Mapp strayed wisely from this topic, though she was not without tease at Starling's formerly inactive social life.  
  
"No," she replied at last. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Rosencranz, where exactly is this leading?"  
  
"I am simply trying to explain myself," she retorted ambiguously. "The social interactions of people at my age can grow bitter if they suspect they have been traded in for a younger, more attractive model. Don't get me wrong, Ms. Starling. I love my husband very much, though it is more a marriage of convenience. Being the right person in the right place at the right time, with the right connections, right family and breeding. Franz is everything a husband should be, but he is not Hannibal. I suppose a part of me shall never be over him." Her face fell then sadly, whether at the knowledge or some rooted deeper meaning. A reflection of still fresh regret from the times of long ago.  
  
Starling watched her for a few seconds, then gathered it was rude to stare and again turned her gaze out the window. When nothing more was said, she decided it was safe to, in turn, speak. "Is that why you disliked me? You thought I was a threat? If that is so, Mrs. Rosencranz, I assure you, nothing is-"  
  
Suddenly, the woman's eyes shot up and captured her with abrupt intensity. "You have left Hannibal, haven't you?"  
  
Starling flinched. "Our six months were over, you see. The project concluded last night."  
  
"Don't think me so naïve."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz offered a small smile and seemed to relax. "Barney was right, you know. I talked with him a bit last night. He was very concerned for you two."  
  
"Yes, yes." She frowned. "What did Barney tell you?"  
  
"Nothing of importance," the older woman replied nonchalantly in a tone that clearly outlined it was something of _high _importance, like the cat that ate the canary. "Something to the affect that he had never seen Hannibal more infatuated, and that he had known him long enough to vouch for what he was speaking of. I must admit; I was skeptical at first. Though I didn't think that he was the type, I suspected he might be sowing some wild oats. Franz has a brother who went through the same." Her eyes leveled bluntly. I will be perfectly honest with you, Ms. Starling…my bitterness was the product of the assumption that you were only the twenty-something year old twinkie antidote to a belated midlife crisis." She looked down as Starling's gaze melted into a glare. "I know I was wrong. I knew last night, talking to Barney. And I watched Hannibal…I watched him watching you." Their eyes locked again. "I saw last night the reason why things could never have worked out between us. I've never seen him look at a woman like that." Mrs. Rosencranz sighed heavily. "And you looked at him in the same way. Don't be offended; Barney mentioned things were tense. However, I don't see Hannibal just letting you go without saying _something. _Tell me, if you can, what exactly prompted your leave. I know the decision could not have been an easy one."  
  
There was absolutely no obligation to listen to this woman beyond the pledge of good faith. Starling's eyes narrowed indecisively, hesitant but also attacked by the most dreaded sense of gratefulness she had ever experienced. It hit her so bluntly that it scared her. She never thought she would be grateful to Mrs. Rosencranz, and yet here she was; ready to tell the least likely person everything. As a child she had rarely been allowed in depth conversations with her mother, or even her mother's cousin when she moved to the ranch. And despite the prior resentment between them, Starling could sense her earnestness. So, with no want of keeping her musings bottled up, she found herself relaying the entire ordeal once more. Unlike earlier when she conveyed the events to Mapp, there was no trace of a bias standing, no angry flash of temper, nothing to suggest a foul disposition. Instead, Mrs. Rosencranz merely nodded her understanding, as though the result came at no surprise.  
  
"And you left?" she asked when Starling could not continue. "You left without telling a word of your intentions?"  
  
"What was I to tell?" she demanded, though not unreceptively. "He made it perfectly clear of his standing, and even advised that the best thing I could do _was _to leave. He thought I was void of every proper feeling, and my conflicting emotions were no more noteworthy than an insolent case of cabin fever."  
  
"That is not totally unfounded," Mrs. Rosencranz observed. "Certainly, you have heard of young ladies who fall madly in love with their professors."  
  
"I have, but that is not the case." Starling sighed, too tired and worn from this argument-both with herself and those she explained herself to-to be offended at the suggestion that anything that mundane could earn her good favor. "He knows it, too."  
  
"Of course he knows it," the other woman agreed. "Consider this, Ms. Starling. A man at his age in love for the first time. More than an attraction or a brief infatuation, which is all I believe women in his past have earned from him. Then you come along and throw his entire system off track. What honestly do you expect? He does not know how to react to you. He is a private man in his own little world. He admits who he sees fit, but is accustomed to expelling them whenever he chooses. Though I know he would disagree, I believe Hannibal is very old fashioned. His better senses have betrayed him. After all, you are quite young. What would become of him if you lost interest in a few years and traded _him _in for a younger model?"  
  
"That's ridiculous!" Starling spat, resentful but knowing not for whom it was directed. "Dr. Lecter knows me too well for that. Did you ever think it possible that perhaps you and everyone else have gone a bit too far in overanalyzing? Did you ever consider that maybe he simply wants to be alone? Despite popular belief, it is _not _a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife! I believe the foundation for all this is the fact that in his eyes, I shall always be an FBI trainee for he cannot see me as anything else. Even if he wants to. It's easy to treat a person one way and regard them in another."  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz smiled grimly. "You are quite well read, dear, though mistaken. The Doctor always says what he thinks. He has no need to hide his opinion."  
  
The fire doused in her eyes slowly as her flare began to calm. "I know," she muttered. "I know."  
  
Despite everything, there was truth in Mrs. Rosencranz's logic. Had Barney not said the very same? That Dr. Lecter was in fact 'scared shitless' of what such change could merit?  
  
"There is one thing, Ms. Starling." Her voice seemed very far away.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Perhaps, with all that has passed, don't you think it's time you called Dr. Lecter by his given name?"  
  
Starling's frown deepened. "I have never been invited to," she replied softly. "I was told a long time ago that because of my age and station that-"  
  
"Perhaps you're not as in sync with the passage of time as you perceive to be," Mrs. Rosencranz suggested. "Much can change in six months."   
  
It occurred to Starling that she could learn to like this woman very much. However, before much more could pass, there was a sharp knock at the door. Both women jumped slightly and gasped.   
  
"Noble," Mrs. Rosencranz decided instantly. "Oh dear, he must think we snuck out a window. Pardon me, Ms. Starling. I'll answer."  
  
She nodded, dissatisfied. Pilcher might be a whelp, but he had uncanny patience. Only that morning, he had waited nearly two hours for her to emerge from Mapp's duplex without making a peep. Something wasn't right.   
  
Then there was hushed talking, and she knew. It hit her like a tidal wave, a cold though undeniably excitable feeling rushing through her. Her hands began to clam. The doorway was blocked by Mrs. Rosencranz's figure, but she could have identified his voice anywhere.  
  
"Good day, Rachel," she heard-her body stiffening as her heart began a wild palpitation. "So sorry to bother you. Were you on your way out?"  
  
"Oh." The woman was audibly just as surprised as she, and trying very hard to buy what little time she could. "Yes, as a matter of fact…Majorie is waiting for me…I must be twenty minutes late. But I've been distracted."  
  
"Excellent. I need a favor. The most confound thing has happened." Dr. Lecter entered as Mrs. Rosencranz stepped aside. He made it perhaps two feet into the room, his eyes catching Starling's immediately and he paused shortly in stride. For a long minute, there was nothing, though she felt her skin aflame with wild sparks of electricity. His gaze burned with the most remarkable trait of all-surprise. She had surprised him before, but it made the experience no less unique.  
  
Then her name was on his lips, hissing to some life of its own-tongue rolling every syllable. "Clarice." For once, his tone made no attempt to mask such astonishment.  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz, by this time, had collected herself masterfully. "Yes," she agreed. "Clarice came to see me and I was delighted to have her."  
  
No one made a move to reply. Starling gazed back at him with all the ferocity that he issued her. The room fell to dead silence.  
  
"Well," Mrs. Rosencranz said at last, quickly grasping her purse off the bed. "Marjorie must think I took the wrong exit off the highway or something. We're meeting the Claypools for lunch. You remember Mr. Claypool, right, Ms. Starling. He-" She broke off in mid-sentence when she realized no one was listening and moved hurriedly for the door. "Stay as long as you like. But if he gives you any trouble, Clarice, I give you full permission to have him evicted."  
  
And she was gone like a bat out of hell. A swift slam followed her leave, but nothing more.  
  
Silence surrounded them. Briefly, Starling felt a surge of acidic abandonment, though she knew it was in vain. Had Mrs. Rosencranz stayed, she would have felt cheated and indignant. It wasn't until now that she realized this last conversation with the doctor was something she craved. A last attempt at closure.   
  
"You look well," Dr. Lecter finally said, making her jump inwardly.  
  
Was it to be this awkwardly casual?  
  
"Thank you," she replied softly. "It certainly surprised Ardelia."  
  
"You visited your roommate this morning?"  
  
"Yes." She frowned at the tenor of the question, as though such a move was not thoroughly predictable.  
  
"When, if you don't mind?"  
  
"About a half hour, maybe forty five minutes after I left." Starling paused, not wanting to last words to linger on the course of action taken that morning. "Why?"  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled slightly, though there was no humor behind it. "You have a very loyal friend." He would not elaborate, rather moved to stand resolutely by the window, beside her chair but no longer looking at her. Primly, his arms crossed under his spine.  
  
So be it. He was going to be difficult. Any other time, this would have been thoroughly aggravating, but she was too frustrated, too tired with it all to care. "What does that mean?" she asked finally.  
  
"Barney attempted to call you, or at least find someone who had seen you to be assured that you arrived wherever you were going safely." The heat radiating from his body swayed in her direction, but he would not turn.  
  
"Barney called Ardelia?"  
  
"Yes. I'd say, around ten this morning. She made it very clear that she had not seen you."  
  
A piece fell smoothly into place and Starling's temper flared. "I was there," she confessed absently. "I was in the shower. She never told me that he called."  
  
The doctor stirred lightly but didn't comment at first. When he did, the subject was nonexistent and the forwardness in his tone had decreased. "Have you visited Jack Crawford?"  
  
She breathed a long sigh. "Yes."  
  
This was ridiculous. If he was going to be elusive, so was she.  
  
In the end, it became a standoff to silence. A long period in which they waited for the other to break. Starling's nerves were moving to be progressively very uncomfortable, but she dared not move. There was not much to expect from this conversation. Inevitably, in the end, she would go her way and he his. Still, it was something they needed, especially given the terms on which she left.  
  
Sitting here in silence was going to get little accomplished. Though she knew her senses and patience had elevated drastically over the past half year, his own was infallible. "Mr. Crawford is probably in Ohio somewhere as we speak. I handed in my conclusions and he left shortly after."  
  
"Barney attempted to call him too, to little avail. I suppose he failed to tell you of that conversation, as well."  
  
What was it with everyone suddenly conspiring against her? "I had no idea."  
  
"What did Jack have to say, Clarice? I take it he was pleased with your results."  
  
"Doubtful at first, then pleased. Ultimately pleased." She held herself silent for a few more beats, then was finally unable to stand it any longer. Starling sprang to her feet, drawing his attention away from the window. They stared a second longer before she began. "Why was Barney trying to reach me again?"  
  
"He was concerned for your safety."  
  
"Were you?"  
  
"Do not ask questions to which you already possess an answer." Dr. Lecter's gaze darkened slightly, though not in anger.   
  
"Sometimes, Doctor, people like to hear that they are cared about. Relying on senses becomes confusing after a while. I would not want to derive something to be there that isn't in actuality."  
  
At that, he grinned slightly. "I suppose I have been living under pretenses." Then his tone dissipated and lost its rough intensity. "I must say, Clarice, you are thoroughly unpredictable. When I told you last night that it would be best if you left, I had no idea you would take the suggestion so literally."  
  
She blinked incredulously. "Was I supposed to obtain some hidden meaning from an otherwise blunt statement?"   
  
"I did not believe you would leave so quickly."  
  
"What was I to do, Doctor? How would things have been had I waited until this morning? How very awkward indeed." She scoffed and turned away. "No, no…I could not do that to myself. You made everything perfectly clear. Why should I have stayed? To humor you? To further humiliate myself? I would like to walk away with a shred of pride. I won't be passed over. I've been passed over all my life until now."  
  
"Stand aside, then, for I will not stop for you." His words were almost hurtful, but there was a spark of familiar playfulness hidden in his gaze. "You talk about me as though I was a motor bus."  
  
Never one to shrink to a challenge, her eyes widened and she stepped forward. "So you are a motorbus. All bounce and go and no stopping to hear anyone else's logic." She bit her lip hesitantly. "But I can get along without you. Don't you think I can't."  
  
Her words bit them both. However, Dr. Lecter merely nodded his understanding. "I know you can; I told you that you could." They caressed each other wordlessly for a few seconds before he finally turned away again. "I have considered, however. I have been considering. You'd never wondered, I suppose, whether _I _could get along without _you." _  
  
Starling's eyes darkened, unsure whether it was more appropriate to feel hope or irritation. "Don't you try to get around me; you'll have to."  
  
"And so I will." Dr. Lecter continued as though he had not heard her. "Life shall return to as it was. But you know how I will miss you, Clarice."  
  
This was turning very maddening very quickly. Collecting rational replies steadily became gradually more difficult. Somehow, though, she managed to hold her ground. "Well, you have my voice on your gramophone. When you feel lonely without me, you can turn it on; it has no feelings to hurt."  
  
There was a long pause as he turned back to her. "I cannot turn your soul on," he said with heartbreaking simplicity.  
  
A wreath of emotion flustered within her, and while the better part of her senses screamed redemption, to swoon, she refused herself to be had that easily. Instead, she surged with a rush of impatience. "Ooh, you are a devil," she spat hurtfully. "You can twist the heart in a girl just as easily as some can twist her arms to hurt her. What am I to think from this, from what you told me last night?"  
  
"What I have told you before, Clarice. You do not need me to repeat myself for such confirmation."  
  
A half groan, half growl erupted from her throat in raw irritation, and she turned, hands balling into fists as if to bang the sides of her head in. "Who are you to tell me what I don't need. _This _is what I don't need! I _don't _need this from you! Not now. You made your position perfectly clear, but you can't honestly expect me to sit around and feel sorry for myself because I stood in the face of such rejection, can you? I have prospects enough lined up for me. Noble Pilcher has called on me twice and three times a day, not that you would tell me. He has never felt the need to hide his feelings."   
  
"Oh, I see. In short, you want me to be as openly infatuated about you as he is. A drooling young whelp that does more harm than aid to society, is that it?"  
  
"That's _not _what I meant, and you know it." She flashed around to him again. There was still that infuriating amusement dancing in his eyes. As much as she hated to admit it, despite her raging anger, a very hidden part of her was enjoying this. It felt too much like old times. "I do not know why I bother anymore. That is over and done with."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"Yes. I'm ready to make a new start, if you will not stop for me." Starling took a sip of satisfaction as his eyes flickered in barely noticeable distaste. "I'm moving to New York, you know. Jack Crawford says he can get me a job there."  
  
For the second time that hour, she had the thrill of catching Dr. Lecter completely unsuspecting and thoroughly surprised. She could get used to that. "New York?" he repeated. "Have you decided against the FBI, then?"  
  
"I decided against the FBI a long time ago. It only took that last trip to Quantico to verify it." She sighed heavily. "Mr. Crawford was anything but pleased. Neither was Ardelia, to be completely truthful. They both blame you."  
  
"What job?"  
  
"A professor at The John Jay College of Criminal Justice. He wants an assistant and I am qualified enough for it. That way I don't squander my original schooling." Her eyes were afire, adrenaline beginning to rush. "I suppose that's only one of my prospects. There's always Pilcher. I could use _your _teachings, Dr. Lecter, and marry someone with good, reliable connections."  
  
The doctor's eyes flashed dangerously; almost violent in nature, incredulous that she would dare even consider such a preposterous option. "Do not attempt to pretend that was ever my motive," he scolded lightly. "That would be entirely foolish, Clarice."  
  
"Yes, yes." Despite the resolute warning in his voice, she held herself unwaveringly. "And you can't love a fool, can you?"  
  
Silence. For a minute, she thought he might actually break something. The blaze behind his gaze was both rewarding and painful. Her feet ached to break across the floor and seal the space between them, but she steadfastly maintained herself. There was little he could do to her for speaking the truth.  
  
"You know better than that, Clarice," he said at last, eyes stanch and refusing to let her look away. "Do not feign such ignorance just for a reassurance of those pledges that were last night so corporeal to you."  
  
"Why not? I know you would like to think that you made me a consort for a king, but Pilcher loves me. He's not afraid to say it, and that makes him king enough for me." Words, words, words. They were both familiar with her unmoved feelings about the whelp. Though she knew he could see through her, she still felt good in her release. "I'll go off to New York and be a teacher. Perhaps even one day I'll offer myself as an assistant to that brilliant Agent Graham. Who can say?"  
  
Dr. Lecter's brows perched. "That toadying ignoramus?"  
  
"Certainly. Why not? If not you, why not? These past few hours have served as affirmation to me that I have taken all I needed from my lessons with you, and without Quantico behind me, I still feel I can stand alone on my own two feet." Starling's eyes flickered challengingly. "I am hurt, Doctor. I was wounded last night, and I'm still wounded. But I will not let that defeat me. The rest of my life will not be spent in the shadows of what could have been. I am strong, I always have been. It hurts, yes, but I've come to the realization that I've been a fool to think you were the earth and sky…that there will be spring every year, even if you are not there to initiate it. I understand now that art and music will still thrive without you. That somehow Keats will survive without you. And there still will be rain on that plain down in Spain, even _that _will remain without you." Starling sighed heavily and moved to the door. "Without your pulling it, the tide comes. Without your twirling it, the earth rotates on its axis. Without your pushing them, the clouds roll by. Somehow, they all do without you, and so can I." She turned to him then, one last time, and held his eyes for reaction.  
  
What a sight it was. The deep whirlpool of the maroon sea in his eyes seemed to drain, the pinwheel having stopped churning. He looked at her as though he had never seen her before, as though she had simply originated where she stood, this rambling thing that he had somehow broken in such a manner that could never be fixed. "Clarice…" he whispered softly. "Meus amor, what have I done to you?"  
  
That alone above everything that he had said brought her closer to a contravention. The raw astonishment coating his tone, the breathing essence of his eyes that regarded for the first tune her as this thing he had created, a spirit he had broken, a kindred soul he had taught beyond the knowledge of his own comprehension. She fought herself manageably, though her knees weakened and her eyes threatened to flood with tears. "I am leaving now," she whispered, sounding only half-alive even to her ears. "Do not try to follow me. Please give my thanks and regards to Mrs. Pearce and Barney." She released a long breath. "Goodbye, Dr. Lecter. You will not be seeing me again."  
  
Walking away was one of the harder things she had had to do, even more so than leaving the manor that morning. As expected, Pilcher was waiting for her outside. A smile broke out across his face when he saw her and he quickly scrambled to his feet. Unlike before, she took no delay in leaving as quickly as possible. She feared if she stayed, she might rush back.  
  
In the meantime, Dr. Lecter remained alone in Mrs. Rosencranz's hotel room for a full fifteen minutes before its occupant returned from her luncheon. She found him gazing resolutely out the window. The man's leer, despite what he was thinking, what was said to him and what he said in return, always remained unchanged. For all their time together in the past, she could not determine his thoughts, though an intuition forewarned they were not positive. Though she knew it was best to hold her tongue, she found the temptation beyond provocative and could not help herself.   
  
"Ad astra, per aspera," he muttered to himself.  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz had taken a course or two of Latin in school, but could not summon the translation from memory and decided to ignore it. "What happened?" she asked instead, moving slowly toward him.  
  
Without turning, Dr. Lecter nodded directorially to the course at which he was gazing. "She is gone."  
  
"Well, of course," she agreed nodding unsympathetically. "What did you expect?"  
  
There was a long silence, and for a minute, she believed that was all she was to get from him. Then he spoke again, his voice worn and conceding. "What is that popular phrase? 'There is a first for everything?'" He paused to allow her time to answer, and continued when she didn't immediately. "Clarice has introduced me to many firsts, among them being now. I believe this is the first time in my general recollection that I am at a complete loss on what to do."  
  
"Do without, I suppose?" That prompted him to turn to her, but his expression was neutral. Mrs. Rosencranz smiled. "She has introduced you to many firsts, naturally, as your first real love. You truly love her, don't you, Hannibal?"  
  
The inquiry was very blunt. Though Dr. Lecter often issued his own straightforward opinion, he was rarely avidly eager to receive it. Such a disposition was read clearly. However, he exhaled deeply and forfeited the match. "I do," he admitted softly. "I do. And yet, I never told her that."   
  
"What's stopping you now?"  
  
"The hope not to trouble her any more than I have. Not to interfere. She asked specifically that I do not follow. This is my folly, Rachel. I appreciate your effort, but do not attempt to correct it."  
  
Mrs. Rosencranz could not suppress her snicker of bewildered amazement. "Is that all, then? I still do not see what is stopping you. Surely you know that despite what she says, Clarice wants you to go after her. All women want the men they love to go after them. I can guarantee you, she might be angry if you don't listen to her, but she will never forgive you if you do."  
  
The words hung dead to the air. Dr. Lecter shook his head in disagreement. "The socialites with which you keep company enjoy such tomfoolery. Clarice would not toy with me like that."  
  
"Think reasonably," Mrs. Rosencranz retorted skeptically, arching a brow. "I think I know a little more about this than you do, if you will permit yourself to admit it. She may be one in a million, Hannibal, but she is still a woman."   
  
That earned a particularly sharp gaze and he did not reply. Instead, he held her willfully, then moved without a sound to the door, taking his leave as abruptly as she had earlier. It came in such cold countenance that she could not help the shiver that raced up her spine.   
  
And yet, seconds later she was smiling. It was intensely satisfactory to know someone had finally reached him, had finally touched his otherwise impervious soul and was now making _him _squirm, placing him in the heart of this confusion where his education and protocol could not save him. For that, he did not deserve her. With a lasting grin, Mrs. Rosencranz nodded resolutely to herself. "Bravo, Clarice."   
  
  


* * * 


	16. Come What May

Author's Note : Last chapter!  There will be in epilogue in a few days. Thanks to Nikita for editing the first part for me. Have a blast at SW tonight – as if you couldn't. Hah.   
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.   
  
Chapter Fifteen   
  
  
A time of many firsts. The first time that he did not possess the answers, the first time that he did not know where his feet should carry him, the first time he reflected on his decisions as follies rather than a rational course of action, the first time to question his judgment. This all came as consequence, of course, as it was the first time to be in love.  
  
For years, Dr. Lecter had prided himself on acting logically, reasonably, thinking things through even if he knew the answer given to intuition. He was unaccustomed to being told with the same prudence that he was wrong, and furthermore, knowing that the allegation was not without merit. Over time, he had perfected his methods and his reasoning to the point of minimal, if any, moments of supreme recklessness. His thoroughness had enabled him to pass the most severe scrutiny in the unlikely event that he found himself in the wrong. To reprimand himself was punishment enough, though the passage was usually fluent and never scrupulously distressing. The analysis of his own floundering blunder served in the efforts of fruitfulness, thus allowing him to prevent the miscalculation from repeating itself.  
  
Insufferable was the notion that he was caught in error. Intolerable was the knowledge that someone else was right.   
  
_All women want the men they love to go after them. I can guarantee you, she might be angry if you don't listen to her, but she will never forgive you if you do. _  
  
He wondered where she was right now. Wondered she was packing for the impending move to New York, spending this time with Pilcher or perhaps sharing a heartfelt farewell with Ardelia Mapp. He wondered if she felt any stirrings of second thoughts, and immediately knew the answer. No, Clarice Starling was pumped with the taste of her conviction.   
  
It was expected with all that had passed.   
  
The oncoming weeks were not going to be easy. Dr. Lecter liked to think himself immune to any form of change. When she entered his life, conforming his schedule to fit around her lessons had been entirely too simplistic, the teachings themselves much too much fun for conventional education.   
  
Days ahead loomed in embryonic tedium. Not only with the promise of her absence, but also with the one-dimensional knowledge that besides cherishing her radiating personality, her smiles, her frowns, her ups and downs, he had grown…accustomed to her face. Like breathing out and breathing in. That wasn't to say things would not progress. After all, he was superlatively autonomous and content before they met. He could surely be that way again.   
  
Nevertheless, aside from that which he would miss the most, he was habituated to waking up to her looks, to hearing her voice. To seeing her face everyday. To be near her, in general.  
  
Dr. Lecter attempted to picture her a few years down the road, the happy wife—heaven forbid—of Noble Pilcher. What an infantile idea. He knew that the suggestion today was made only at his expense, to get such a rise out of him. However, with his importunate presence, Pilcher might possess the ability to break through that impenetrable wall as Dr. Lecter himself had so many months earlier. For, as Starling said so dynamically, he wasn't lacking the courage to proclaim his love to the world at the top of his lungs. Such altruism was reckless and clumsy, but she deserved it. She deserved to be so openly adored, even if it was a man whose incessant presence annoyed her beyond the brink of durability.  
  
Even so, he told himself, such a union was doomed before a vow was even taken. Starling simply wasn't the marrying type, and in any case, she would not want someone who she could control with such inclusive dictation. A good fight was what she craved. Someone who drove her utterly and completely out of her wits before scooping her off her feet.   
  
New York…what awaited for her there? A job that would eventually become as routine as sacking groceries at the supermarket? Teaching the same practices, the same basics, the same patterns semester after semester; she would tire herself out. Starling needed excitement in her life, not the dull predictability he had endured before she entered his.  
  
There was some lasting reassurance. If she could walk away from Quantico now, Dr. Lecter knew she would never return to the career she once pursued. The career that would have ultimately destroyed her, and instead her developed insight allowed her to escape before her devotion became overly intractable.   
  
Another odd confluence of bittersweet comforts occurred to him as he crossed the walk, approaching the manor. While Pilcher's affections were at the time being sincere, he would eventually lose interest and leave her for some social-climbing heiress. A whelp like that could not be kept locked in a web of obsession for too long before someone else tickled his fancy. Men at his age were always whispering sweet nothings while looking clandestinely in another direction. After all, his attraction and so-called love at this level of acquaintance could be nothing more than associated infatuation. How well did Pilcher know her exactly? Well enough to know what made her happy? What made her fluster? What sort of food she preferred, her partiality of bottled water to tapped? What movies she had once named as her favorite? Her rather obsessive love for old school rock'n'roll? Her aversion to televangelists that matched his own and the heavenly sound of her rich laugh as they strolled in public, poking fun at some obnoxious hat crowning a poor soul's head.   
  
He toyed with the scenario of an impending return to his care. How poignant it would be, after she realized the miserable state of being her life was in, when she hammered on his door in search of some sanctuary. Nursing her back to the state of her old fiery self would be a rich delight. After all, he was a most reasonable man. Stubborn to a fault, yes, but reasonable.   
  
_Goodbye, Dr. Lecter. You will not be seeing me again. _  
  
With a sigh, he placed his coat and umbrella against the coat rack and paused heavily near the door. The inside of the manor was morose and depressing. While the air traced the light scent of the area she had occupied, her vibrant force was indisputably gone. What a dismal sight. A vast emptiness bore inside him.   
  
Then he was tracing the house, peering into rooms they had occupied together. The parlor, the dining room, the kitchen, the study. Places of their discussions, past lessons, laughs, frowns, sideways looks and leers. The window Barney always perched at when searing with discomfort. All empty chambers now, barren and rueful.   
  
Perhaps this wouldn't be as easy as he liked to think.  
  
_But I can get along without you. Don't you think I can't, _she had said. And so she could. He would love her for no less.   
  
The house was occupied still. Mrs. Pearce was undoubtedly lounging about—making a bed or cleaning a window or doing something to pass the time. And while he did not expect him to stay much longer, Barney still called the place home. However, soon it would be desolate to all but himself. An unoccupied structure filled with things and furniture.  
  
He knew this was not what he wanted.  
  
Dr. Lecter eyed the gramophone beside his desk and recalled her suggestion. With loafing slowness, he approached, considered, and finally switched the machine on.   
  
It was the record of their first meeting. He did not recall even taping it, and left it to the assumption that Barney, in his growing discomfort, had fiddled idly with the machinery in some method of taking his mind far and away. Whatever the case was, he was glad. With a submissive though dreary smile, Dr. Lecter took a seat in one of the two chairs adjacent to his desk. The background was filled with airy static in accordance with the unreliability of most recording devices. Though the conversation had long ago engraved itself deeply in his memory palace, he found himself implicitly eager to hear the demo.  
  
Her voice struck him first, the quiet though resolute determination embedded in that accent that rang of the Virginian hills.   
  
**_"I'll be oldest in my class with just as much if not more discrimination. Last night, you said you could have me coached in ways to avoid that. To avoid all that bullshit. I'm here to take you up on that, if the offer still stands." _**  
  
Then his voice, equally stanch though perhaps a bit more humored. **_"You took a jesting statement from a stranger so seriously? Things really must be awful. Why, tell me, should I help you?" _**  
  
Indignant rebuttal. He fondly sketched the look of appalled offense tacitly splayed across her face and grinned to himself. **_"A jest?" _**she repeated in embarrassed transgression. **_"A fucking jest?" _**  
  
**_"Certainly, though perhaps structured with slightly more becoming language. After all, Clarice, it is the twentieth century. What sort of devious creature would make such an odiously self-beneficial offer to a young woman he has never before met?"   
  
"You did, last I checked." _**  
  
Dr. Lecter's smile thinned and a small chuckle wedged passed his lips. "That's my girl," he mused.  
  
And, of course, the uniformly calculating structure of his retort. He wondered, vaguely, if this was what he would miss the most. The playful banter, the delicious exchanges, the narrow looks that always suggested something more. It was difficult to say. He would miss many things. **_"Very interesting," _**his voice retorted. **_"What do you say, my friend? Do we invite her in or escort her to the front door?" _**  
  
Dear Barney. Another chuckle erupted from his throat. **_"Leave me out of this! I want no part!" _**  
  
A calm collected sense from his then-protégée as she soothed her temper. Her features were just as alive to him as though she were standing in the doorway. **_"Fine. Fine. You don't wanna help me? I understand. It must be so much more interesting for you to make surface observations of unsuspecting bar customers. You don't have to bother with in-depth analysis. This would be a challenge."  
  
"I have patients, mind you. Patients who pay me a commendable amount to help them sort through various issues. Why should I invest time in you? It will be a costly affair, and I haven't the hours to waste. And it will take every bit of six months." _**Empty excuses complete with further reminders of what awaited him now. His thoughts then were so detached from what currently plagued him. Though he intended to take Starling under his guidance since the minute she entered the door, he had never foreseen an outcome such as this.  
  
**_"I'm not so hopeless!" _**she cried over the gramophone. Indeed she was not. She was built stronger than any before her, even if she did not realize it herself.   
  
Of course, he had seen that then, too. Toying with her was always a pleasure. A joy he would not once forfeit. **_"Oh? Then why are you here? Turning to a man you met only once before, in a common hostelry, no less." _**  
  
A thoughtful pause. **_"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you're not superior to a baboon in heat." _**  
  
Barney's recorded laughter was in no comparison to that which escaped the doctor now. Rich and authentic, though sad and empty rumbles of melodic mirth. Another aspect he would miss; her quick wit that consisted of seemingly random insults. Once at the end of such an offense, it was difficult to decide whether to be affronted or amused. As the conversation on tape continued, he stood wearily and shut it off, allowing the manor to once again fall silent.  
  
He wanted to believe it was her cue to come parading through the doorway, bags in hand, succumbing her obduracy and conceding to throw the towel in first. However, before the musing could even die to the odds of probability, he knew such would never occur. No, Starling had far too much self-respect to retract her assessment.  
  
The only way he would erase this consistent strain was to admit his fault and go after her.  
  
And go to her he would. It occurred to him bluntly, hitting him with an avalanche of cold force. Such restraint was useless, for he knew what he wanted. Reprimanding himself would not ease the growing hole of emptiness. He needed her here, and with her own confession, he knew it was where _she _wanted to be.  
  
It was difficult to speculate Starling's course of action from the Pennsylvania House. He doubted seriously that she would have scheduled a flight out of town prior to their conversation. Given how much time that had passed, it would be cutting it much too fine. Perhaps she intended to stay a few days yet, get her affairs together, and say her goodbyes.   
  
Risking any such possibility was not on his agenda. Dr. Lecter knew that Ardelia Mapp would know her friend's timetable, how long she intended to stay and what flight she had booked or would imminently book. With nothing of his usual restraint, the doctor hurried to his desk and located the phone. He had no conventional use for an address book, having always committed every given number to memory.  
  
After a few rings, the loud-mouthed roommate answered. "Yello?"  
  
Dr. Lecter fought a flinch. "Ardelia Mapp, I presume?"  
  
"Yeah, who is this?" With as much said, it was obvious she was not in the market for explanations. "Listen, I'm happy with my long distance plan and I'm already ten minutes passed my lunch break. I don't have time to sit through a sales pitch."  
  
"This is Hannibal Lecter," he announced quickly, unaccustomed to such forwardness, but wanting to catch her before she hung up. Indeed, a long silence sounded on the other end, cold and foreboding. "I am calling to inquire if you have seen Clarice recently? I need to—"  
  
The volcano brewing on the other line exploded, requiring little provocation or prompting. It was not wholly unexpected. "Listen, _Buddy," _she hissed. "I don't know how many times you or your little cronies need to call before you can take a _fucking _hint. I told Barry or whatever his name was that I hadn't—"  
  
"Lying is an unspeakably ugly trait, as is discourtesy. I have seen Clarice today and she relayed the events following her leave this morning in full. It is essential that I reach her."  
  
Mapp laughed disbelievingly, apparently finding no discomfiture at being caught in her lie. "You're a class act! Just leave the poor girl alone. Haven't you done enough damage? It's bad enough you—"  
  
"Ms. Mapp, I really have no interest in your opinion. Your disposition in the sketch of my character is primitive at best, and I cannot afford to dally with such foolishness." There was a stunned silence ringing from the other end from someone whom he figured was rarely without a speech prepared, however poorly drafted and designed. "I called to find Clarice. Is she there?"  
  
A few more seconds of staggered nothingness before Mapp stuttered and found her voice. "If she was, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you."  
  
He sighed tryingly, his temper flustering to dangerous heights. "Would you at least tell her I called?"  
  
"Hell to the no! It's bad enough you've brainwashed her into walking away from her real future, but now she's moving to fucking New York because she…" An equally tiresome pause echoed on the other line. "Well, I hope you're happy."  
  
"I—"  
  
"Why the bloody hell'd you call me, anyway? Did you _really _think it'd do any _good?" _  
  
Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed. "My purposes concern myself and Clarice."  
  
"Just fucking TELL ME and maybe I'll fucking TELL HER."   
  
That was it. He had her. The roommate was curious.  
  
"Tell her," he said slowly. "Tell her that I called to make amends."  
  
"Amends?"  
  
"To make things right."  
  
Another indignant scoff, though this one not entirely as obstinate. "Make things right? After what you did? I'm sorry to break it to you, Doc, but you really, _really _don't deserve her."  
  
To hear those words leave anyone's lips—especially someone was impertinent as Ardelia Mapp—and understand its validity was nearly unbearable. Tightly, his eyes fell closed in silent acknowledgement. A second passed and he nodded to himself, moving away from the desk slowly. "I understand that," he divulged. "However, I need her. And _I _do not need _anything." _  
  
It seemed today was the day for professing to everyone except the one person to whom he needed to profess.  
  
There was a long, stunned pause. When Mapp spoke again, her voice was a hundred degrees cooler than before, temperate and calm. "Damn," she said admiringly. "I gotta hand it to you…you _are _good."  
  
"Have you seen Clarice? I will not ask again." Not so. He would ask a thousand times if need be.   
  
Evidently, such an admittance was just what Mapp required to cooperate. "She just left here with some guy. Norbert or…" On short-term memory, she really was horrible with names. "She called that guy that Crawford told her to and was hired on the spot. She had her things packed—the things she needs immediately—her flight is in a couple hours."  
  
"Is Noble going with her?"  
  
"No. Well, I think he wants to. Starling told him she wants to go alone. He was going to take her to the airport and then we're going up in a week or so to take her the rest of her things." Mapp paused in thought. "If you hurry, you might catch her before she gets there. I mean seriously—they just left two minutes ago for the bus stop by St. Augustine."  
  
"My thanks."   
  
Mapp was in the process of wishing him good luck when he clicked the phone off, having no time for such pleasantries. Without wasting a beat, he made a quick move for the door, seized his coat and umbrella off the stand in the entryway, and smoothly made his exit.   
  
  


* * * 

  
  
The weather was appropriate. Not even three in the afternoon and the sky was overcast, dreary, with thunder rumbling lightly in the distance. Ordinarily, she enjoyed rainy days. It was a consistency that had remained with her throughout both experiences. As a trainee, a light shower enabled a prolonged jog, nature cooling her off before she could break into a sweat. She never minded, rather welcomed the splashes of mud that anointed her clothing; her tomboy roots allowed her to regard scuffles with fond appreciation. However, it was the mornings in bed she enjoyed most. Lying on a cozy mattress and listening to the light splatters on the roof, watching drops of water slide lazily down the window.   
  
_The rain in Spain— _  
  
No! That was over now. This was not the time to reflect.   
  
It occurred to Starling that rainwater was not as generous to her wardrobe as it was once upon a time ago, and while she toyed with digging her umbrella out of the mound of clothing that was her suitcase, she realized she didn't care what became of her attire. After all she had seen today, the outfit felt tainted with association. Her discussion with Dr. Lecter echoed mercilessly in her subconscious. With as many times as she replayed what passed, she could think of nothing that would have alleviated the situation.   
  
Her piece was spoken; the closure she required under her fingers. So why did she feel incomplete?  
  
Pilcher stood loyally by her side, his previously content character dismayed by her impending departure, but seemingly satisfied to have this last hour or so. While she would always be grateful for his enthusiastic goodwill, Starling knew she would not miss his company. The only person she would miss was Ardelia.  
  
And…  
  
It was useless to deny the inward churnings of dread. Putting as much space between herself and Dr. Lecter was the wisest thing she could do, but rationality did not excuse that it made her head ache and her skin grow numb with ominously dark presentiment.   
  
Faced now with change made her resent the courageous words spoken no more than an hour before. There was no doubt in her mind that she could do this and succeed, but she did question her desires. Starling had only been to New York once on a holiday weekend with Mapp. It seemed ages ago, but she recalled liking the city. Never had she planned on living there.  
  
Pilcher nudged her slightly, directing her eyes to the approaching bus. The very sight of it made her body clamp defensively, as though she was about to be hogtied and thrown in the back. "You have everything you need?" he asked solicitously.   
  
"Yes." She felt she should say more, but words were lodged unmovable in her throat, clogged by a force she tried but could not deny.  
  
"And you will call when you get there?"  
  
"I'll call Ardelia." There was no point in masking her intentions. Starling had no design to phone Pilcher and waste hours talking when her time was better otherwise occupied. If she needed a favor from his uncle's friend, she would then call Mrs. Rosencranz. Likewise, Mapp was on strict alert not to give her number out to anyone unless okayed or alternatively instructed.   
  
"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you to the airport?" he asked somberly, voice stinging with the heat of rejection.  
  
She shook her head. "No, no. This is definitely something that I need to do by myself."  
  
The bus came to a screeching halt beside the curb and the doors squeaked open with definitive emphasis. Starling drew in a trembling breath, wondering if the cold was more accredited to the rain or what she was leaving behind. It was impossible that a mere twenty-four hours earlier she was just beginning the preparations for the White House extravaganza. The ordeal in itself seemed so long ago. Vast and distant. So much could change in a day. In an hour.  
  
At that moment she was very gratified for the rain. Starling wasn't to the brink of tears, but anything now had the power to push her over the edge.   
  
The bus driver leered unappreciatively at her luggage, but she did not dignify the sideways glare with one of her own. Instead, she quietly asked Pilcher to help her with the two bags (hardly an inconvenience) on board as she collected herself and prepared for the leave.  
  
It wasn't healthy to stall like this when she was supposedly doing the right thing.  
  
"I feel like it's goodbye," she muttered in light confession when Pilcher returned to her side. She hadn't wholly intended to make such a declaration, but similarly made no attempt to take it back.  
  
"Don't say that!" Pilcher gasped. "You'll visit, won't you?"  
  
To that, she offered a non-telling smile. She had no purpose to convey her alternate intentions only to fluster and upset him. However, she suspected her look betrayed it all. There was no desire to ever return, furthermore, no feasible way she _could _given the circumstances of her leave. These dreaded fearful thoughts were the homecoming she would endure time and time again if she forced herself to visit. No. A new start, _this _new start entailed leaving everything behind.  
  
"Hey lady!" the bus-driver snapped irritably. "We don't have all day!"  
  
A mild rush of irritation shimmied up her spine, but she understood. This consistent standstill was getting her nowhere.  
  
It was when she moved away and gave the butch woman an indulgent nod that she saw him. And time suspended; the caged silence of a dying animal's final heartbeat. The shivers rippling across her skin intensified, and when she gained her breath it escaped as some strangled cry, as though the sight itself pained her.   
  
He stood against the rain, a gray scene, umbrella propped securely in hand. It was apparent that he had been there for some time. Though he stood a good distance away, it seemed he could always catch her eyes, reveal what no other could see in his, and possess her spirit even when consoled with sweltering determination. Her will betrayed her. Starling bit her lip, her mind screaming at her to turn and get on the bus, to forever ride away from him, from this place that was growing more and more difficult to leave. However, her feet could not be persuaded. The sounds echoing around—the perturbed growls of the bus-driver, the roar of the motor, the splatter of rain against the sidewalk, even things as corporeal as Pilcher tapping her shoulder—melted into one voice before ultimately drowning into nonbeing. She saw nothing but him.  
  
What was he doing here? Starling swallowed a harsh lump, her wobbly legs reluctantly taking a step forward. And again and again until she was far away from Pilcher, ignoring his confused voice, tuning out the agitated horn of the bus. Her skin numbed to the cold rainwater, her hair plastering in a wet mass to her forehead. Every breath she drew was long and bewildered, the smallest shimmer of what she dared identify as a ray of unsuspecting hope bustling up her spine.   
  
_He probably just came to return your Beatles CD. _  
  
It was perfectly evident when she stood before him, only separated by a foot or so of wet pavement, that that was his furthest intention. Only once before had she been at the receiving end of that gaze, that look that could not deny her anything. However, as the rest of him, his eyes were still ambiguous to her. They masked something heavily as though burdened, and yet still regarded her with yielding surrender.   
  
They always picked the most unlikely places for these confrontations, and this clearly was no exception. Whether it be in the White House, in the company of a former but genial ex-girlfriend, learning the secrets to etiquette or washing horse droppings off forever-ruined shoes, they never failed to find time to conveniently distract themselves to the others company. Even now when she was leaving the city, and more accurately, leaving him.   
  
When at last she found her voice, Starling was startled to hear the uncertainty about it, but maintained herself. "What are you doing here?"  
  
His first words refused to reveal his intentions, instead aired with the expected elusiveness that he always made a point to deliver. Instead, he used his free hand to wave her closer. "Come here, Clarice. You'll catch your death."  
  
"I'm perfectly comfortable where I am, thank you." There was no way she was going to get that close to him, not with their past conversation lingering in not even its second hour of existence, not when she was minutes from walking away. Again, an inward pounding urged her to turn and run back to the bus, but she could not. "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled slightly, his eyes twinkling in a manner that was all too familiar. Even now it made her fluster. Now with everything that had passed, every pleasantry, every look and exchange, the argument of that afternoon, even with the spine-tingling kiss they had shared. It was inconceivable and ached of familiarity.  
  
"I have been thinking," he mused thoughtfully, his tone still distant in accordance of his infamous strain of euphemisms in place of explicable reasoning. "About you and New York, since you mentioned it this afternoon."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Well, Clarice, with as well as I wish you, I don't believe you will find much success in Manhattan." There was a familiar element dancing in his eyes. She had seen it too many times before. "After all, its citizens do not uphold the reputation for housing the most enviable contacts."   
  
Disbelievingly, her eyebrows arched. "You came here to warn me I might get offended by some big city slander? Do you not think that I can manage without you there holding my hand? You weren't there in the twenty-six years preceding our arrangement, and I dealt with plenty then. With all due respect, Dr. Lecter, I don't have time for this. I have a plane to catch."  
  
With either amazing durability or amazing egotism, he smiled at that, as though her departure was something trivial, a matter ready for discussion, open for debate. "You are very frank, Clarice." It was all he said. There was an air of decorum tied to the end of his tone.   
  
"Is that all you came to say? I don't have time for this. I—"  
  
When she started to move away, his free hand jumped out like a snake, grabbing her forearm and dragging her back a foot, not quite under the massive umbrella, but close enough. His warm breath tickled her cold face.   
  
"You know me better than that," he scolded lightly, grip not loosening.  
  
"Do I?" Starling fired back with straining challenge. "Really, Doctor, this is ridiculous. I told you everything I needed to say. Either get to the point or let me be." Demonstratively, she turned to motion to the bus, but it was gone. Her bags were situated near a desolately abandoned Noble Pilcher.  
  
The next bus would not arrive for at least twenty minutes, and while she tried to summon irritation, there was none to speak of.   
  
"It appears you missed your ride," the doctor murmured.   
  
"There will be another." With growing desperation she turned back to him, fight draining from her eyes. It was useless battling with the man—the outcome was consistently the same. In some manner, she always managed to emerge the one dazed and bruised, contrite and baffled. "What _are _you doing here? I told you—"  
  
"I know what you told me."  
  
"So why are you here? _How _are you here? Who—"  
  
"I phoned Ms. Mapp," Dr. Lecter replied, the firm grasp on her arm loosening slightly, the skin against hers becoming light and feathery. "She told me where I could find you."  
  
Starling blinked skeptically. "Ardelia?" she repeated in disbelief. "Ardelia told you where I was?" When he nodded, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. "So much for being a loyal friend."  
  
"Oh, she was quite loyal." Incredibly, Dr. Lecter chuckled. "And most unflatteringly blunt in her rather low opinion of me. She made it perfectly evident that I was not held in high esteem and that—"  
  
_"Why _did you call Ardelia?"  
  
"To find you."  
  
She swallowed hard, subconsciously taking a step forward. "Why…why did you…"  
  
There was a long pause, and the doctor made no move to answer until he was certain he held her unwavering gaze. When he spoke again, her heart stopped. "I had to stop you from leaving." There he paused to study her reaction. When her expression blanked and words vacated her body, he continued. "I would not advise you to be angry with Ms. Mapp," he said nonchalantly. "She went to great lengths not to tell me where you were, and exactly how much time I had before I lost you."  
  
The lump in her throat was impressively now the size of a tennis ball. "Why did she tell you?" she asked, voice barely a whisper. Was it possible to move closer when both feet were planted firmly on the ground? Somehow, she felt herself swaying nearer; she knew he was not moving. "If her opinion of you is as you say, and her loyalty to me—"  
  
"I called to tell you something," Dr. Lecter said urgently. "Or rather, to ask you to meet me before you left. Such exchanges are really quite odious to share over the phone. I must say now that I am glad things progressed as they did. You would not have met me, I think, given the grounds of our last exchange. Would you have, Clarice? Do you think?"  
  
She read in his gaze that he knew the answer, and shivered at the realization that she did as well. Thus, she ignored the inquiry, untouched by the need to vindicate healing battle scars. "What did you want to say?"  
  
Starling was surprised when he discarded his own question in answer for hers. Perhaps it was knowing that he was easing off very thin ice and felt a slip would cause it to crack under his feet. The troubled feeling settled with her that she was helping him to safety, hand coiled protectively around his arm.   
  
Something flickered in his eyes before he spoke, and she felt another rush. "I want to tell you what you already know, though need to hear." He sighed, though did not break his gaze from hers. "I said last night that I have been a selfish being all my life, and could not afford to allow myself to grow clumsy. Both statements were true, and I stand by them now. My life before you entered it was tedious and empty, which you observed from the very first. I was accustomed to order with little regards to the cavity of human feeling. You presence aligned many windows, and likewise, I fear your absence will cause them to shatter." There was another pause, though brief. "Your roommate told me that I do not deserve you, and I acknowledge that. I did not deserve the six months of contentment I received while doing so little, and I do not deserve you now, especially with all I have made you tolerate. And regardless of your decision, you need to hear it at least once from me, rather than Rachel or Barney. I love you, Clarice. I love you, and I want you with me. I always have, I have just been too stubborn to admit it."   
  
The declaration should not have surprised her as it did, but her breath stopped short in her throat, and her mouth seemed to dry. Her eyes began to water with what she knew were tears. Rainwater tapped lightly on the umbrella above her head, her body almost completely under its protective sheath. If she could have summoned words, she would not know how to begin or what to say. So she merely nodded, held his gaze for as long as she could before tearing away and fixing on her shoes.   
  
"I suppose the question now is…" he murmured soothingly, hand instinctively tightening on her arm once more. "Clarice, can you love a fool?"   
  
Her words revived to haunt her, and yet they did not make her ache has they had before. Instead, Starling emitted what sounded to her ears like a half-mad, half-startled quip of mirth, though she was in no laughing mood. Fleetingly, her options lined for her in a fashion similar to the windows he described. An awaiting occupation in New York, her last link to the old life, what she had known and valued before this. It seemed so far away, the idle hopes of someone she did not know. The principles were hers, yes, but with such different intentions that she could not fathom ever speaking them, hearing or feeling them. Believing them at all.  
  
Before her was the most cultured, witty, elegant man she had ever known, sacrificially on his knees. The only person to really know her, and love her for no less. A great deal contradictory notions bundled inside her warring conscious. He had caused her grief, wounded her beyond human capability, made her fluster, annoyed her, agitated her, but always understood her. And here he was, after her in the direct minutes preceding her leave in the hopes that he could persuade her to stay, to take back everything and fill the void with neglected words, what should have been spoken long ago.  
  
However, despite her rawest inward desires, Starling was tempted to decline. She wanted to make him ache in the manner she had, yearned to see the disappointed regret shroud the gaze of unmovable confidence, make his lips burn with hers and withdraw just as quickly in the tormenting fashion he had the night before. And yet, even with her logic and earning of justification, she could not. Despite knowledge and foreboding, anything he said or did would always be forgiven. In the end it was inevitable. No matter how she tried, she loved him too. Loved him for his infuriating buoyancy and equally compelling sense of intuition. Anything else, any other offer, would never satisfy her.  
  
"Well," she said at last, voice quaky and face damp with the tears she only now realized were skating down her cheeks. Nevertheless, fortitude also aligned her tone, along with the taste of full conviction. "You did say you would take me to Italy someday. I reckon that's a place I'd like to see, and I suppose it would be difficult to arrange if I move to New York." She smiled lightly. "All that besides, there are…things…I'm not quite willing to leave behind."   
  
Perhaps she was cheating her away out of her own teary confession with words that were, by in large, meaningless. Nonconformity pushed her to take the path less traveled, and she knew he would expect no less. Societal expectations had no place in this relationship.   
  
The look in his eyes was one of changing seasons. At first ablaze with conception, the earnings of his longstanding silence, and then cloaked with the brilliance of rekindled fervor. For a fleeing instant, it looked as though he did know how to react, his own understanding suffering the comprehension of favorable tidings. However, the expression was brief, and Dr. Lecter was left to convey his delight in a moment of muted splendor. The grip on her arm became fierce and commanding, pulling her against him as his mouth covered hers. Initially soft and still exploratory, Starling could not help releasing her long repressed zeal, prompted now with the promise of the future, the security of her standing, the knowledge that everything would at last be all right. It escaped her in the form of urgency, a soft moan, outmatched by the answering rumble that shuddered correspondingly through his body. As boundaries were pushed asunder, the ferocity of his touch intensified, denying her nothing. It was familiar and new all at once, the taste of the past and future now lacking the aged uncertainty. So much had changed since the night before. It felt as though a thousand years had passed.  
  
There would be plenty of time for the latter. With slow reluctance, Starling pulled away, maintaining herself in his hold a minute longer. The grip on her arm released finally, coiling around her to gently caress the small of her back. His lips touched her forehead whispered her name once.   
  
Slowly, not wanting to compromise her position—lest it all fade away, she cleared her throat and muttered, "So what now?"  
  
"We should leave," he replied just as softly, mouth not still in exploration. A quick brush over her cheek and her chin before he pulled away completely, eyes still blazing. "Barney has spent the majority of the afternoon attempting to locate you."  
  
"Poor Barney." She laughed slightly, turning to where her luggage was seated still. It did not surprise her that Pilcher had finally abandoned his faithful post, rather encouraged a second chuckle to ripple through her system. "We have made him put up with a lot, haven't we? Where will he go now?" The question left her before she could consider. Perhaps she was being presumptuous that he would leave at all, though it had always seemed like an unspoken understanding.  
  
"An apartment, most likely. He is several months delayed in acquiring the nursing job I originally promised him." Dr. Lecter fell into pace beside her to assist her with her belongings. In the distance, another bus was rolling to the stop, but she barely glanced at it. The Bentley was parked on the other side of the street, and in their sudden hurry to get out of the rain, no more words were exchanged until secured inside.   
  
Then an aching air of reverberation attacked her, as though returning home from an outing in which she was supposed to learn some lesson on protocol. Starling felt herself shiver inside, but similarly dismissed the notion when she met his understanding eyes and smiled.   
  
No. The lessons were behind them. From the comforting tug at his lips, she was assured that while he would not trade those months for anything, he was just as relieved as she that they were over. Over, and yet here she was. Still at his side—the only place where it felt like home.   
  
"So what's on the agenda for tonight?" she asked casually, lounging comfortably in the seat.  
  
The flippant attitude in the air was a pleasant relief. After an afternoon of such intensity, it felt like taking a breath of fresh air, the heavy block that had burdened her lungs lifting at last. Similarly, it reassured her that no matter how their relationship changed, for better or worse, he would not conform and change with it. Neither would she. "I hear the symphony is performing an assortment of works by baroque composers."  
  
"How about a movie?"  
  
He smiled amiably. "If you absolutely insist, Clarice. There is one I have been intending to see for quite some. It has received wonderful reviews, and I believe is in the current Oscar race for best foreign film. Surely you have heard of it. It's—"  
  
Starling's eyes widened in protest, trying hard to ignore the amused smirk crossing his face. "I'll pick."  
  
It was luck that a stoplight stood in the way of further progression. Dr. Lecter turned to deliver an especially cryptic though equally playful glare, to which she returned with full force. In the end, there could be no winners; both conceding in a simultaneous defeat as attentions were drawn back to traffic. The need for conversation dwindled, words far too maladroit to trust. Sometimes silence was the perfect median. It conveyed what needed, and managed to omit the unnecessary, or too undeveloped for release.   
  
Though silence could grow tiresome with too much strain.   
  
Something told Starling there would be a fair combination of silence, of words, of lengthy conversations, of reverses and exchanges. Plenty of moments shared to a particularly moving piece of music, or a sip of fine wine. There would also undoubtedly be arguments, whether in the aggressive or playful context, disagreements on evening plans, restaurant suggestions, little things that made life as it was. However, she likewise knew nothing in the brink of normality had or could ever emerge from this relationship. Whatever awaited their future, it was evident that it was going to be, at the very least, well worth the wait.  
  
It was also comforting to know that while they moved forward together, some things, the most important things, would never change.  
  



	17. Epilogue

Author's Note : Finally. My thanks to Helene for looking over this for me.   
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended. Also, a minor apology to Ms. Fielding for taking a line that was simply too good from _The Edge of Reason. _  
  
Epilogue   
  
  
The evening was interesting, to say the least.  
  
A film, she said, that reflected the result of inadequate education plaguing many public schools. A film, she said, designated to reach out to an otherwise oblivious society and point out its more obvious flaws. A film, she said, for the spirit in observing the ignorance of others in a new and instructive light.  
  
The film: Wayne's World.  
  
It was a gamble from the beginning. She suspected he wasn't an avid fan of the popular show, thus, theoretically, suffered no chance of being caught in her misconception. However, he was similarly cultured in a wide variety of artistic styles. He might surprise her. If he knew what he was getting himself into, he didn't deliver any signs.  
  
Starling never knew how she got him into the theatre, never questioned her good fortune as they sat through a series of previews for films that even she would never consider on a boring weekend night. Though she was one to enjoy the distinction in a variety of comedic levels, there was a line between idiocy and slapstick. As the popular Saturday Night Live skit-turned-movie began, her eyes were centered on him, watching in unabridged delight as Dr. Lecter realized what he had been conned into. His reaction was much less subtle than her own; a controlled facial tick in the nature of annoyance as she broke out into rich albeit quite laughter. The outburst was brief, her hand moving to warmly rest over his in silent apology for her deception. Starling felt his eyes on her briefly, even as she looked ahead, unable to stop the grin from tickling her lips.   
  
So it was that he was made to tolerate the irritating dialogue, exchanges, and catch phrases. Starling suffered no moderation in laughing heartily, pleased when she glanced in his direction to study a monotonous expression. And, however much he denied it, Dr. Lecter could not help but grin from time to time; whether at the film or her reaction she did not know or ask. Whatever it was satisfied her.  
  
The man must have truly loved her to put up with such mindless—however amusing—nonsense.  
  
"I believe," Dr. Lecter mused as they strolled out of the theatre, "that you have sufficiently proven that it is possible to squander six months worth of lessons in elevated compliance and protocol in a mere hour and a half."  
  
"I hope that doesn't mean you want to start over," she replied challengingly. "For if that is so, I will tell you right now that you aren't about to get very far."  
  
The doctor chuckled lightly, wrapping his arm around her waist, and enjoying the buoyancy in which he did so. "Hardly my intention," he replied with assurance. "I was thinking more along the lines of severe punishment. Quick and painless, on a word of good faith."  
  
She snickered in retort. It was odd how everything had an air of such normalcy, though she refused to consider. The obvious answer had always been there; it was only natural for everything now to fall into place. Life seemed refreshed and new—it was hard to imagine her disposition of that morning, or to consider she had obtained little to no sleep in the past forty-eight hours.  
  
Dr. Lecter sensed this considerately, and while she coiled her witty retort, he only smiled and helped her to the car.   
  
They slept in the same bed that night, innocent but together. He was reluctant to let her get too far away. By the time she was in her nightgown, Starling was all but walking in her sleep. It only took two minutes of stillness to knock her into deep slumber. For the doctor it was not so simple. He spent a good part of the night simply looking at her beside him, occasionally unable to stop his hand from tracing the contours of her features.  
  
It was impossible that she was here, and yet she was.   
  
The next few days progressed with casual caution, though the atmosphere was by in large unchanged. They took long walks, shared thoughts and ideas; mentioned possible plans for the future without stirrings of trepidation. It became custom for their conversations to begin at the breakfast table and last until they retired for the night.  
  
Listening to her talk was a pleasure he had not before wholly appreciated. Dr. Lecter did not like to think he could shortchange anyone for anything, least of all her, but their time together beyond the merit of instructor and pupil allowed him to observe and enjoy her on a variety of fascinating levels. He would not fool himself into believing he could ever fully understand her, and despite his better senses, he realized that he did not want to. The more he learned, the more he wanted to learn, the more he heard, the more he wanted to hear. A cycle that was, for once, contending and inexhaustible.   
  
Barney was eager but correspondingly poignant in his leave. When they returned the first night from the movie, he expressed his animated sanction, boasting however humbly that he had known how it was to end from the very beginning. While it was obvious he was not altogether ready for his own departure—evidently no more prepared in the after-stages of the project than either of his colleagues had been—he moved with Dr. Lecter's help to a respectful residence in Georgetown. The distance was perfect. As much as Starling had grown to love Barney, she felt it was a consensus that she and the doctor needed their time alone.  
  
In the same way, while Mrs. Pearce was not released of all her duties, her hours were cut back noticeably without handicapping her paycheck. It became odd for her to arrive any earlier than one in the afternoon.  
  
A few days following their propitious meeting at the bus stop, Dr. Lecter phoned Mrs. Rosencranz to wish her a well trip back to Baltimore. When she was brought up to speed on the events that had converged in the direct afterward of the meeting in her room, she expressed her immense delight and insisted to treat everyone to lunch. She left on an especially chipper note, winking subtly to Starling before strolling away. While the doctor observed the understated exchange, he merely smiled to himself and did not inquire. Some things were best left unsaid.  
  
Nights fell into almost immediate syncopation. He issued no inappropriate advance without her definitive consent. For the first few evenings, they merely slept in each other's arms, comforted and soothed only for the neighboring presence beside them. At times Starling would awake in a confused panic for reasons she could not explain. It worried her at first, but the nightmares eventually faded away. Regardless, she was always calmed a beat later with soothing reassurances that coaxed her back to a warm chest where she would again fall asleep.   
  
In accordance with what felt natural, the invisible boundaries of their physical relationship were crossed in time. A smooth transition that required no forward planning, no addendum or even apprehension. The worries they might have shared were nonexistent, and never came into play.  
  
Dr. Lecter eventually rescheduled several of his therapy sessions, and while Starling had no impending business, she connected her phone line and answering machine to a stand beside their bed in case Mapp needed to reach her for anything. However, being left alone in the manor grew very tedious very quickly, and without prompting or even mention, the doctor was persuaded to discontinue his patient meetings indefinitely after a week or so. Being restricted to an office listening to person after person enter and bitch about life was the pattern he detested. As it was, mornings were more wisely spent in Starling's arms without having to fuss with prearranged appointments or impending luncheons with people he would just as soon eat than look at.  
  
One particularly humorous morning that did not progress beyond the bedroom until the doorbell announced Mrs. Pearce's arrival, the phone gave a shrill howl at a most inopportune time. Neither Starling nor Dr. Lecter were in a particularly convenient position, though her hand shot for the receiver out of habit. Striking quickly, he caught her by the wrist and pinned her arm to the bed.   
  
"Leave it," he gasped, carrying on. The answering machine picked up a second later.  
  
"Starling." Of all people. It was Crawford. His voice was high and strident, the stirrings of a panicked man at his final resort. "I can't believe I got through. Your line's been dead for a week. Where the hell are you? I got a call a week ago from Lyle Collins at John Jay. He told me you hadn't met him at the airport, hadn't heard from you, hadn't been able to reach you through your roommate. I tried calling her but she's no good. If you get this message anytime…call me. I'm going to get worried if I don't hear from you soon. Starling? You there? STARLING!"  
  
With that, Dr. Lecter came to a sharp pause in his attentions, raising an eyebrow and reaching for the phone with deceptive calmness. "Hold on, Mr. Crawford," he murmured. "She's coming." Then he dropped the phone, aiming for a glass of water, but it instead fell to the bedside and remained unattended for the rest of the afternoon.  
  
Jack Crawford never dialed her line again.  
  
The following week, with Starling's growing fondness of her various Latin pet names; consisting mainly of _meus amor _and _cara, _Dr. Lecter arranged the promised trip to Italy. They planned to tour the countryside, visit both Rome and Florence, and partake in the finer European joys. She even found herself growing anxious to think of the seats he acquired for the opera, the restaurants, the places she would have avoided once upon a time ago.  
  
Dr. Lecter was happy to take her. He knew once she went that she would never want to go back. This was good, he reflected, for he intended very much for Florence to be his final resting place. However, once his theory proved correct, he similarly made no suggestion of any imminent move. It was too soon for Starling to make such a dynamic geographical decision. She was not ready to be that far away from her friends or the places she knew. Severed completely from the life she had once led, or had strived to lead. This did not concern him. Rather, the doctor understood the day would eventually arrive, perhaps sooner than he anticipated. As much as he enjoyed trying, it was never wise to predict her mood, or what her incurred thoughts and intentions might reveal.  
  
Her spontaneity was wonderful like that. After all, life was full of compromises.  
  
  


FIN 


End file.
